


Bullets and Cupcakes

by Anjali_Organna, threemeows



Series: Bullets and Cupcakes [1]
Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)
Genre: Assassins AU, spies au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-05-12 11:25:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 45,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19228210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anjali_Organna/pseuds/Anjali_Organna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/threemeows/pseuds/threemeows
Summary: Lara Jean Song-Covey just needs to complete one more hit in order to retire from her life of international assassin. And then she gets assigned a new partner.Or, the "Peter and Lara Jean fake-marry as a cover for their assassins-for-hire job AU."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first two sections was written by Anjali_Organna, the next two written by me (three meows). We used to round robin all the time in another nutty fandom that shall remain nameless. And we tried to do it with this one but ... life. Etc. Anyway, she gave me permission to try and to do this solo. THANKS BB. <3

If Kitty hadn’t decided to make eggs for breakfast that morning, none of it ever would have happened. Lara Jean stares in consternation at the carton, now down three eggs, and mentally runs through various possibilities:

 

  1. Kill her sister. (But not, apparently, with egg strata.)
  2. Run out to the store for more eggs and become even later than she already is for work.
  3. Email the building listserv and hope that someone is a) actually home on a Monday morning and b) has eggs to spare.



 

Option #1 is, unfortunately, not a go as Kitty herself has already left for her morning class. Lara Jean’s day job is at a thrift shop - she's already asked for tomorrow off and can’t afford to piss off Tom, the manager. If she's late today, he might make her open tomorrow instead, which isn’t an option for reasons she is not about to explain to him. Finding an entirely new day job at this time of year is also not something Lara Jean has time for, which rules out Option #2.

 

That leaves Option #3.

 

 _Hey all_ , she writes to the building-wide listserv, _having a bit of a baking emergency here! Is there anyone home who is willing to part with three eggs? I promise they are going to a very good cause._ This last bit is probably a little much, Lara Jean thinks, although her real boss would probably get a laugh out of it.

 

Five minutes later, a reply comes in: _Sure, swing down to #204_.

 

Two minutes after _that_ , holding three eggs in the palm of her hand and gaping up at the inhabitant of #204, Lara Jean is ready to kill Kitty all over again, but for an entirely different reason.

 

*

Peter Kavinsky wakes up with bruised knuckles and a hangover. The knuckles were from the part last night when he had to deck a dude who wouldn’t shut up, and the hangover is from when he then had to have conciliatory drinks with said dude, who was offended over being punched. Said dude was also Russian and had a better capacity for alcohol than Peter, hence the hangover.

 

Normally, he wouldn’t have answered the email about the eggs; he knows it is smart policy to keep to himself as much as he possibly can. To be honest, if it had been from anyone other than #403, he would have ignored it. But, well, it _was_ #403, and Peter is feeling a little delicate this morning and so he thinks, _What’s the worst that could happen?_

 

(In hindsight: Ha.)

 

When he opens the door, #403 blinks twice at him, stammers a little, and accepts the eggs he gives her. She’s wearing an oversized sweater the color of a ripe eggplant on top of a pink t-shirt, striped tights, and fluffy bunny slippers. Her hair isn’t combed and her face is free of makeup; it's the closest he’s ever been to her and Peter thinks she looks absolutely lovely. Two pink spots bloom on her cheeks as she stares at him. She mumbles, “Oh, I, uh--”

 

“What’re you making?” he asks.

 

“Egg strata,” she replies.

 

“Never heard of it,” Peter says truthfully. “Can I try some when you’re done?”

 

“Uh,” she says, “this one is going to a work thing, sorry.”

 

“Too bad. Maybe the next one, then?” He gives her a hopeful grin and she blinks again.

 

“Yeah, um, sure.”

 

“Sorry,” Peter says, “I just realized that we never--” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Peter. Peter Kavinsky.”

 

She looks down at his hand, blinks some more, and then shifts the eggs from her right hand to her left. “Lara Jean Song Covey.”

 

Her hand is small and surprisingly strong. “Well, Lara Jean,” Peter says, shaking solemnly, “it was very nice to meet you. I hope your egg strata is a hit.”

 

She tilts her head, peering up at him. Amusement finally makes its way across her face, which is a relief. Peter would be very sorry if she spent all of their interactions bemused and blinking at him. “I hope so too, Peter Kavinsky.”

 

*

 

With her special delivery of poisoned egg strata complete, Lara Jean decides to treat herself - a hot bubble bath, candles, and a night of scrolling through Pinterest to find the perfect decor for her future bakery. As soon as Mr. Drug Tycoon consumes his egg strata and dies of a (supposed) heart attack, the funds from The Company will be deposited into her offshore account. She’ll finally be able to realize the dream and away from the life of assassin for hire. She’s already handed in her letter of resignation. Sure, she does good work - killing dangerous bad guys is good work, she tells herself - but it’s ... tiring. Especially considering why she got into this line of work in the first place.

  
But before she can even start filling up the tub, her tablet pings. Great. A message from the Boss. Lara Jean frowns. Clipped and to the point - _Come in ASAP._ Wondering what on earth it could possibly be, she grabs her bag and heads out of the apartment, to the subway.

  
  
*  
  
Lara Jean can hear the raised voices through Boss’s office door. “Oh, he’s waiting for you,” Velma the secretary says, waving her forward.

  
  
“Uh, maybe I should -“

  
  
Velma pushes her through.

  
  
Standing in the office is Boss and wow that hot guy from #204 - that Paul Kaminski? Peter Vrabonski? - arguing. Well, more like #204 is yelling at Boss.

  
  
“You said that if I did that last mission, you’d give me my money. Instead, you call me here and tell me I got to go on another -”

  
  
“Ah, Agent Covey,” Boss says, smoothly. “Thanks for coming. Meet your new partner for your next mission.”

  
  
Lara Jean stares at him - then at #204, who stares back. “Come again?”

 

“Wait - _you’re_ with The Company too?!” #204 says, to Lara Jean, surprised.

 

“It turns out the two of you are uniquely qualified for this next job,” Boss says, pressing a button his laptop. Lara Jean’s phone buzzes; so does #204’s. Lara Jean brings up the file on her phone. “You both are well acquainted with this particular target.”

 

  
“Are you _kidding_ me?” #204 exclaims, at the same time Lara Jean says, “Really?!” They glance at each other.

  
  
“Let me guess,” Lara Jean says, weakly. “An ex?”

  
  
#204 at least has the grace to give her a slight, tired smile. “Yeah. And how did you know ..?”

  
  
“We were best friends a lifetime ago,” Lara Jean says. She sighs, looks at Boss, and crosses her arms. “I’m guessing you’re withholding my egg strata hit funds until I do this one last job?”

  
  
Boss snaps his fingers in a gunshot motion at her. “Got it in one.”

  
  
Lara Jean sighs, glares up at #204 through her lashes. He doesn’t look exactly pleased himself.

  
  
“And my money from this week’s hit?” he asks.

  
  
Boss nods.

  
  
#204 sighs, glares down at his phone, then looks at her, as if appraising. Then he grins, wide, impertinent. Like this is all just a big game to him. “Sure. Why not? Might be fun.”

  
  
Lara Jean rolls her eyes. She’s never liked working with partners – she’s always flown solo. Easier that way. But what else can she do? She needs the cash. She _needs_ to get out of this job.

 

So she purses her lips, cocks her head at him. “All right,” she says, hand out for a shake. “Let’s do this.”

 

#204’s grin widens even more, as he takes her hand in his.

 

“Oh, and by the way, your cover is that you’re married and living next door,” Boss adds, casually.

 

Their heads swivel in tandem. “ _What?!_ ” Lara Jean exclaims.

 

#204 just laughs.

  
  
-tbc-  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

The mission is simple. Observe a seemingly innocent suburban housewife soccer mom, who is actually the go-between for two international arms dealers. Find out her contacts within both organizations. And then make things look like an “accident.”

 

 

Making things look like an accident is Lara Jean’s specialty. And, according to #204 - er, Peter Kavinsky - kicking ass and taking names is his, which will certainly come in handy if things get dicey.

 

 

Still. She’s only had a partner a handful of times. And she’s never had a partner who asked to taste her egg strata. At least, not in the way that he asked.

 

 

(Why oh why did Kitty have to take the last eggs ...)

 

 

“I just think there should be some ground rules,” Lara Jean says reasonably.

 

 

They’re standing around the massive kitchen island. Not just a massive kitchen island.  _Their_  massive kitchen island. The Company forged the necessary paperwork for the sprawling four-bed, three-bath Craftsman in the heart of Portland’s quaintest suburbs. They were even so kind to purchase furniture, down to the eight-piece patio set. Of course, to even further look the part, Boss insisted they participate in a photo shoot so that the perfectly painted neutral gray walls would have suitable evidence of their cover story. That was only natural - it’s not as if she’s never done one before - but she’s rarely worked with partners and never had to do the fake-married cover before. It’d been alarming having to pose in a designer wedding dress - and it was when this Kavinsky character suggested honeymoon shoots (“Somewhere tropical. You know. In swimsuits.” Followed by waggling eyebrows) that she decided enough was enough and that setting some boundaries would be a sensible course of action. Flirting in an apartment hallway as presumed civilians was one thing - especially since at the time, she was certain she’d never see him again. This? Entirely different. This is the job.

 

 

“You got rules? Come on, you really know how to zap the fun out of a situation.”

 

 

Lara Jean leans back against the counter, arms crossed. “This is all a game to you, huh?” she says flatly, unimpressed.

 

 

Peter shrugs his shoulders, takes a sip of beer from his bottle. Unconsciously, her eyebrow twitches. Amused, he says, “What? You’re gonna tell me not to drink while I’m on duty?”

 

 

She purses her lips at him. “No, I was actually gonna say you have horrible taste in beer,” she says, light.

 

 

At that, he outright laughs.

 

 

“I just can’t believe you think this so amusing,” she says, nodding towards the big bay window in the living room. Outside, darkness yawns - it’s nearly 9 pm - but the lights from the house next door are still on, though all the shades are drawn. “You know. Considering ...”

 

 

“Considering what? She’s my ex?” Peter scoffs in a way that makes Lara Jean instantly know that he’s not okay with it at all, although he’s pretending to be. He shrugs. “Mission’s the mission. Can’t change it. Sucks, but it’s true. Which is why I choose to look on the bright side of things and have a little bit of fun.” He points the bottle at her. “Something maybe you should try more often.”

 

 

Lara Jean bristles. “I have fun.”

 

 

“Then why do you act as if this is just a job?”

 

 

“Because it  _is_  just a job,” she says, confused.

 

 

“Come on!” He says, setting the bottle on the island. “You don’t get 153 confirmed clean kills if it’s just a job to you.”

 

 

She pauses, surprised. “I - you read my file?”

 

 

“Of course. It was in the briefing. I don’t partner up with just anybody and not do my homework.” She can feel her brows knit. She’d read his file too, naturally, but everything she’d read pointed to someone who verged on carelessness, no matter how effective his methods - not necessarily an agent who would zealously prepare for a mission. She’d might have to rethink her initial assessment. “That’s really amazing work,” he says, almost admiring.

 

 

And that’s what shuts her down - the compliment. She knows she’s good at what she does.

 

 

She’s just never liked it.

 

 

“I just really think we should have some ground rules,” she affirms, clipped, as she turns back to the notepad.

 

 

She can practically hear Peter roll his eyes.

 

 

“Fine. Liiiiike?”

 

 

“Okay. For instance. No kissing.”

 

 

He nearly spits out his beer. “Are you crazy? No one is going to believe we’re married if I can’t touch you.”

 

 

Ugh. He’s got a point. They were invited to a welcome party by the HOA President. Apparently, the entire neighborhood attends. It will be an excellent opportunity to case the street and gather intel. 

 

 

“Fine. But only within reason,” she grouses, scribbling it down on the notepad.

 

 

He gives her a mock-salute.

 

 

“Point 2 - separate bedrooms.”

 

 

He glares at her, and she feels bad that he looks so insulted. “Give me some credit, geez. Totally fine.”

 

 

“... I get the master.”

 

 

“... We’ll shoot for the master.”

 

 

“Fine.” Lara Jean considers the kitchen. “We each have our designated ‘me’ places. I take the kitchen. You can have ...”

 

 

“Basement. Done. Did you see that movie theater set up down there?!” When she shakes her head, he laughs. “Well, I won this round clearly.”

 

 

*

 

 

Not so clearly, because they shoot for the master, and she ends up winning best two out of three. Still, Peter can’t complain. The second bedroom is spacious enough to fit a queen sized bed and gigantic flat screen tv. As soon as he’s done unpacking his clothes he flops onto that bed and turns the tv on, channel surfing.

 

 

It’s not that he thinks this is a game. It is serious. He just can’t believe Gen’s gotten into this whole mess. When he’d dated her back in college she was just a normal girl - gorgeous, funny ... yeah, with a chip on her shoulder and an abundance of daddy issues and a bad temper. It was that temper, amongst other things, that made him cut ties with her out of college. But still, nothing in her that in any possible way screamed, “I’m a middleman for two sadistic international arms dealers.”

 

 

He glances over though the window. The lights in Gen’s house are off now. Truthfully,  _this_  is the kind of life he expected of Gen - suburban, with its perfect McMansion and manicured lawn and luxury mini-van parked on the winding drive way. Where did it all go so crazy?

 

 

Sighing, he shuts off the tv and stares at the ceiling, only to hear a muffled curse from downstairs. And the smell of something burning. Alarmed, he springs up, grabs his sidearm from underneath the bed, and jogs down the staircase, only to find Covey at the kitchen island, waving a hand in front of her face and trying to rescue a sheet of burned black cookies.

 

 

“What the hell?” he exclaims.

 

 

“Sorry,” she coughs, tossing the sheet into the sink. He runs the cold tap for her, and over the hiss and steam she says, “Was trying a new experiment.”

 

 

He looks at the island, littered with flour and chocolate chips, but also rows and rows of chemical vials - some clear, some in different shades of colors. And all, he can guess, tasteless, but deadly.

 

 

“Do you want some?” Lara Jean asks, handing him a plate piled high with chocolate chip cookies. At his dubious look, she says, “These I made for the party tomorrow. Don’t eat them all.”

 

 

“Should you really be mixing these with ...?” He gestures vaguely at the worktop.

 

 

“It’s fine. You gotta mix and match to get any of them to work.” She takes the first cookie and takes a big bite.

 

 

As she chews thoughtfully, he takes his own. And wow - “These are freaking delicious,” he says around a mouthful of cookie.

 

 

“Thanks,” she says, brightly, and he has to stifle a chuckle at her genuine delight. He’d noticed her at the apartment before, but there are rules about engaging with civvies, and so he had kept his distance. Now ... well, there are even more rules about fraternizing with Company members. As much as he’s enjoyed needling her with his minor flirtations - there’s this  _tick_  that flickers across her face that he finds positively hilarious - there’s a line, and he won’t cross it. Well, maybe toe it a bit ... because like he told her, he intends to have fun.

 

 

Covey’s fluttering about the kitchen now, cleaning up the mess, ponytail swinging. Peter watches her a moment before he tips the other half of his cookie at her. “Thanks for this,” he says. 

 

 

“Good night,” she chirps, barely glancing up, before returning to wiping down the island.

 

 

He waves a finger. “Uh, you got some flour on your face.” He smirks and retreats up the stairs, whistling. 

 

 

From upstairs he hears her frustrated, “Asshole,” and he doesn’t bother hiding his answering laugh. 

 

-tbc-

 


	3. Chapter 3

Lara Jean swipes the lipstick over her mouth, smacks her lips, then leans back from the sink and contemplates her reflection in the mirror. She’d finally settled on a pink blouse with short, draped sleeves tucked into a straight black and white gingham ankle pants - in other words, just tipping over the edge of “trendy suburban housewife,” yet nothing _too_ crazy. Their story is that Peter’s a software developer who works from home, and Lara Jean, like most of the other women in this neighborhood, is a homemaker – thus giving them both ample opportunity to observe the neighborhood without rousing suspicions.

 

“And we’re working on a baby,” Peter says, casually, as Lara Jean picks up the Tupperware of cookies and they head out the door.

 

Lara Jean’s espadrille wedges become briefly entangled before she rights herself. Peter pretends not to notice as he locks the front door but she catches the slight smirk. She purses her lips together - she’s noticed that, him trying to rile her up. She doesn’t get it, though. At the apartment, he’d been nice – almost sweet. She knew he’d once helped Kitty bring up the groceries while Kitty was dealing with the dog on a rainy day. This guy – this devil-may-care guy . . . well, which one is the _real_ guy, really?

 

So she’s at a loss at how to proceed. If she chooses to engage, it might make him pull her proverbial pigtail harder. And if she chooses to ignore him ... it might _still_ make him pull her pigtail.

 

Caught between a rock and a hard place, she decides to go for the latter option first. Isn’t that how you deal with children? She just needs to get this mission completed as fast as possible. Get it done and gone.

 

“That wasn’t part of the briefing,” she says, calmly, as she strolls down the walkway. Greg Rivera’s house is across the street from Gen’s, and the sounds of music and chatter and childish squealing waft through the neighborhood.

 

“Necessary fleshing out of the details,” Peter says, catching up to her. “Just trying to get our stories straight.” He winks at her and she studiously keeps her gaze forward. It’s almost like his freaking footsteps are laughing at her, too.

 

Jerk.

 

Greg opens the door and is immediately nice and welcoming. “I always like to throw these things when new people move in,” he says, readily accepting Lara Jean’s proffered plate of cookies. “Brings the community together.”

 

“Your place is lovely,” Lara Jean says to his wife, Keisha, staring at the massive fish tank.

 

“Thank you!” Keisha trills. “You two are so cute. How long have you been married?”

 

“Oh, not long,” Lara Jean says, as Peter drapes an arm around her waist.

 

“Feels like forever,” Peter says, and she just _hears_ the smirk in his voice. Then he dips his head low, by her ear. His breath is warm against her face. “Sweetie, you want anything to drink?” He squeezes, just so.

 

Lara Jean turns her face towards him, unable to stop the miniscule motion of her eyebrows from knitting together, her lips pursing just a tiny bit. Somehow, that makes the slight grin on his face grow larger. “Should you really be drinking?” she mutters, low enough so Greg and Keisha can’t hear.

 

“It would look weird if I wasn’t,” he mutters back. He looks so amused. Damn it. Ignoring him didn’t work. Perhaps she should change tactics.

 

“No thanks, baby, I’m good,” she says, loudly and lovingly. “I’m gonna take a look around. I just saw a woman with an amazing handbag. It was nice meeting you, Greg - Keisha. Bye, honey bear.” Then, with a grin, she leans over and slaps Peter’s ass.

 

He jumps.

 

*

 

Peter’s beginning to think he needs more than just beer today. Greg is a cool guy, and so are a few of the other men that he meets along the way – but _man._ Every conversation is about their kids and what soccer tournament or ballet competition they’re going to next week, or their boring desk jobs, or their shopaholic housewives, or some combination of the three. At least he’s getting some information on who’s who in the neighborhood, and everyone’s general schedules.

 

“You having any luck?” he mutters as he takes a sip of his beer.

 

“The usual,” Lara Jean’s voice, teeny in his earpiece, replies. “I know Emily on Baker Street is a real bitch but I have to make nice if I want the best role on the PTA board.”

 

Peter snorts. “You notice anything strange about . . . everybody?” he asks, surveying the backyard. Kids are jumping in and out of the pool – a mix of parents, some harried and helicoptering around their children, others peaced-out on lawn chairs and buried in their conversations or alcohol or phones.

 

From somewhere across the yard, Lara Jean replies, “Oh, like how _everybody_ works for that tech start-up?”

 

“Ding ding ding. The briefing didn’t really get into it. But now I’m thinking – shit.” Peter takes a last swallow of his beer.

 

“What? What’s happening?”

 

“Gen’s here.” And she’s spotted him. Gen’s eyes widen, then narrows slightly, before her face settles into something bearing more towards cautious friendliness. She squeezes the arm of a much older man – Peter recognizes him as Ted, her husband, from the briefing. She whispers into his ear – he’s distracted from talking with another person – and after he nods, starts to walk over.

 

“Fantastic!” Covey says, excited. “Now we know they’re out of the house, I’ll just do some recon –“

 

“Are you _nuts?_ ” he hisses through the side of his mouth. He knows she’s not used to working with partners, but he’d figured her as a stickler for rules – guess not. “We did _not_ agree to that. And you can’t do that without back up –“

 

“Well, you’ll just keep them distracted,” she says. Peter turns, searches for her through the crowd to go and try and stop her, but all he catches sight of is a flash of her long black hair waving in the breeze.

 

“Peter Kavinsky,” Gen says, stopping before him. “Fancy meeting you here.”

 

-tbc-


	4. Chapter 4

Lara Jean winces when she hears Gen’s voice over the comms. The tone alone is enough to make her shudder. In high school, they’d been best friends - if a phrase like that could be applied to a person like Gen. People lived in awe of her - and a huge part of that awe was based in fear, Lara Jean included. Gen had her moments of sweetness, of genuine niceness (in many ways, Lara Jean was grateful Gen was there for her when Mom died), but as easy as a light switch that could be flipped in an instant. In many ways, it was a relief when they went their separate ways for college - Gen to UVA, Lara Jean to UNC. The slow fade out could be logically attributed to normal growing apart and distance, and Gen - and her wrath - were none the wiser. 

 

So Lara Jean has some degree of sympathy for Peter now - she can’t imagine Gen was that much changed from her high school persona to college. She’d had a string of boyfriends from freshman year up through graduation, and all of those relationships ended in hellfire.

 

As she easily flips over the white vinyl fence and into the backyard of Gen and Ted’s house, Peter says, “Gen! What a surprise.” Lara Jean smirks. He sounds friendly, nice, like he really is greeting an old friend – but there’s a trace of ... she doesn’t know what to call it. Like he’s trying too hard. As she dodges the back door security camera, she almost snickers. _Boy, she really did a number on you, Peter Kavinsky._

“I wouldn’t have figured this as your scene,” Gen says, mildly. 

 

“Well time changes people,” Peter replies. “Gives you a whole new perspective.”

 

“This is more of a family-oriented neighborhood,” Gen says. “Didn’t think you were into that.”

 

Lara Jean finishes picking the lock on the back French doors and slips inside the house. Nothing suspicious - a palatial, spotless kitchen ... an enormous dining room that could seat twenty people, easy ... and an office. Bingo. 

 

“That was college,” Peter says. “Long time ago.”

 

Lara Jean can’t help it – she snickers at the tone of his voice, at him trying to be so smooth. Peter must’ve heard her because suddenly there’s a feedback loop in her earpiece and she winces before hissing, “Mature!” She shakes it off and surveys the office. It’s obviously Ted’s - a leather wingback chair, ornate desk, and dark bookcases lined with very important looking books. She takes a seat at the desk and starts up the laptop - then sticks in the thumb drive. The background on the laptop is of them on their wedding day. Lara Jean makes a face. Ted is handsome in a distinguished way, the dress is beautiful, and Gen looks beautiful, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s young enough to be his daughter. It’s really unsettling how Gen ended up, given what Lara Jean knew of her life - in high school, her father was constantly cheating on her mom, with girls as young as Gen. 

 

Well, that, and the fact that she might be running guns.

 

As the copy program runs, Lara Jean heads up to the bedrooms. Peter and Gen have transitioned to making nice, if somewhat stiff, small-talk, so Lara Jean doesn’t really pay attention. Whatever is on the laptop might not be useful, since it appears to be Ted’s. If she can find something of Gen’s, though ...

 

She opens the walk-in closet. On the ceiling, she can see the outline of the drop-down attic door. But before she can pull the cord, over the comms, Gen says, “Well, this has been fun. But Ted and I have to get going.”

 

“Really? So soon?”

 

“Yes, we’re having family over for dinner tonight. I really have to start prepping.”

 

_Shit._ Lara Jean closes the door and bolts down the step, heading towards the office. Oh, no. The copy program hasn’t finished running.

 

“Er, that’s nice,” she hears Peter fumble. “You two should come over to ours sometime.”

 

“’Ours’?”

 

Lara Jean starts frantically typing in code to disengage the copy program.

 

“Yeah. I’m married now.”

 

“Oh! Oh . . . um, congratulations.” Lara Jean rolls her eyes. The surprise is palpable. What did Gen expect, honestly? Although the way Peter’s just trying a biiiit too hard, maybe she was right to be surprised. “What’s her name?”

 

Lara Jean freezes, alarmed. Then she yanks the thumb drive out and shuts down the computer, before she darts towards the back French doors. _She_ shouldn’t be surprised. Of course this was going to happen – this was the entire reason she was chosen for this mission. Still, the prospect of actually dealing with Gen is suddenly coming into glaring reality. She was naïve to think – to hope – that she wouldn’t have to come across her, before, well . . .

 

“Yeah, it’s funny,” Peter says, as Lara Jean hops the fence. “She grew up in your old hometown. You may know her? Lara Jean Covey?”

 

“Lara Jean?” A pause. “Lara Jean _Covey_?”

 

Lara Jean pushes her way through the crowd. “Genevieve!” she exclaims, arms wide, voice pitched high and squealing – the voice women who used to be friends use when they haven’t seen each other in a long time.

 

“LJ?! LJ!” They do the hug-sway thing and Lara Jean catches a whiff of fancy perfume.

 

“I can’t believe it. You look fantastic!” Lara Jean says, stepping back. And Gen does. Her curls are perfectly bouncy, with just the right tiny of golden highlights, and she’s wearing a silken white jumpsuit with gold jewelry.

 

“Thank you,” Genevieve trills. “You’re still so _sweet_.”

 

Lara Jean notes, wryly, that Gen doesn’t say it back. She keeps her smile plastered to her face and glances at Peter, who’s watching them with a bemused half-smile behind the rim of his beer can. He lifts his brows at her.

 

“So, um, have you met my husband?” Lara Jean asks.

 

“Yes!” Gen chirps. “It’s so funny. We knew each other back in college, didn’t we, Peter?” She reaches out and pats his bicep.

 

Lara Jean sucks her cheeks in, trying desperately not to laugh.

 

“Yeah, I was just telling Gen she and her husband should come over for dinner sometime soon,” Peter says, putting an arm across Lara Jean’s waist. She forces herself not to jump, to appear natural, she kind of wants to glare at him for being so freaking _obvious._

 

“Oh, sweetie that’s such a great idea!” Now it’s her time to trill. She turns back to Genevieve, who’s face has gone pinched. “We can bake cookies again, just like old times.”

 

“Well, I’ll have to ask Ted,” Gen says. Her smile is frosty, tight. “We’re very busy. You know how it is. I’ll see you both around.” She turns away, sandals clacking against her heels. They watch her go.

 

The second she disappears from sight, Lara Jean pulls away, the unconscious pit of anxiety in her stomach suddenly evaporating. “Come on,” she hisses, tugging at his hand.

 

“Wait a second, we gotta talk about what just happened there,” Peter hisses back.

 

“What? With what?”

 

“I meant going off by yourself, without back-up, in broad daylight – ”

 

“So I could get this?” Lara Jean pulls out the thumb drive from her back pocket.

 

Peter’s glare dissolves into admiration. He snatches the thumb drive from her. “Okay, that was cool,” he admits.

 

“Ha!” Lara Jean claps her hands in delight.

 

 

*

 

“I can’t believe you pulled that off,” Peter crows, munching on his French fries. They’re seated on the living room sectional, greasy take-out littering the ottoman before them. “That was awesome.”

 

Lara Jean crosses her arms in front of her chest, unable to stop herself from smirking at the laptop as it runs the decoding program. “Thanks.”

 

“And, Gen was pissed. Bonus points.” Peter’s grabs some more fries and, on his tablet, scrolls through the background info they had requested HQ forward to them on the neighborhood residents.

 

He might’ve imagined a snicker from her. “So . . . what happened there?” she asks, idly. Peter pauses but continues to review the files. “I mean. Purely professional curiosity.”

 

“What do you mean, ‘what happened’? Nothing happened.”

 

She gives him a look. “Okay,” she says, pulling up her feet onto the couch.

 

He glances up from the tablet, frowning. “What?”

 

“I mean, for ‘nothing happened,’ it seems like an awful lot happened, is all,” she says, eyes still on the screen.

 

Peter rolls his eyes. “I literally mean nothing happened,” he says. “It was a mutually decided-upon conscious de-coupling.”

 

Covey bursts out laughing. “Okay, Gwyneth!”

 

He sets the tablet down, crosses his arms. “It was college. We were kids. And . . . the Company came along.” At this, Covey stiffens, peers up at him over the top of the laptop. Why this is so surprising is beyond him. They recruit young – that’s how they get you. She should know, shouldn’t she? “I was on a lacrosse scholarship to UVA. You can’t exactly play professionally, and I really didn’t know what I wanted to do after, and right at my senior year . . .” He shrugs. “She wanted to settle down, get married straight out of college. Big corporate job in a suit for me . . .”

 

“And you ran scared,” she finishes.

 

He makes a face. “No. I just – ” He looks around the house – at the high-beamed ceilings and designer touches. Outside, in the evening darkness, there are rows of similar houses, with similar, non-fake families – going to their 9 to 5’s, taking their kids to school. It’s all very nice, it’s – it’s _comfortable_ but . . . “It just wasn’t for me. Tried telling her that, but . . .” He shrugs again. Seeing Gen again had been disconcerting, to say the least. He’d honestly thought he was over her, and she, him. But, then again, they’d been a huge part of each other lives for a long time, however mismatched they had been. “Anyway, it wouldn’t have worked. She was always so . . . so . . .”

 

“Mean?” Covey supplies, helpfully. “Selfish? Self-absorbed?”

 

“She could be nice,” Peter says, almost laughing. “Geez. I thought you two were best friends.”

 

“We were,” she says, shrugging herself. “And don’t get me wrong. I – well, I had some things happen, and she was a really good friend to me back then. When she wanted to be.”

 

True enough. That was part of her allure, back then, he supposes. He leans back against the armrest of the sectional, puts his feet up himself. “So, how’d you get in?” At her blank look, he supplies, “You know. With the Company.”

 

Lara Jean shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. “Um . . . my mom. She uh – she was an agent.”

 

“She recruited you?” Peter let’s out a low whistle. “That’s badass.”

 

“No.” She shakes her head. “Uh – she . . . her cover was blown. And um . . . the Korean mafia . . .”

 

Peter sits up, alarmed. She’s fiddling with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, her gaze downcast. Jesus. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t – ”

 

“It’s okay,” she says, briefly meeting his eyes, before she goes back to staring at the laptop screen. “You didn’t know . . . Anyway, we were told it was some kind of car accident. But it didn’t really sit right with me. So, in college, I started doing some digging . . . a little too much, maybe, and the Company came and found me. And the rest, they say, is history.”

 

Peter chews on his lip, watching her. Something pings in his memory. “You said the Korean mafia. There was the head of one branch – had a heart attack, maybe two years back . . .?”

 

She looks him squarely in the face. “I had to pay off the Company’s training debt first,” she says, slowly, quietly. “Then it took a while to get enough funds to finance the op personally.”

 

He nods, slowly. “Well, then . . . I hope it was slow and painful.”

 

Her eyelashes flick down, and she shifts on the couch, and says nothing. The air in between them has grown uncomfortable, like he’s said something wrong. So, if it isn’t awkward enough, he says, “You know, if I really think about it, I think I got into this gig because of my parents, too.”

 

She types something on the keyboard. “How so?”

 

“When I got recruited to the Company I felt like . . . finally. Maybe I can do something. You know. Make a difference. Show him I wasn’t something that you could just . . .” He stops, starts again. “My dad wasn’t around much when I was a kid. Then he completely flaked on us when I was in high school. Turns out, he had this whole secret life – girlfriends, affairs. Other kids. Haven’t seen him since I was fourteen.” Lara Jean looks up, brow furrowed at him. “Sorry. It isn’t in _any way_ the same thing, but – ”

 

“No, I get it,” she says, nodding. “My mom was away a lot. I just didn’t know why. Dad didn’t have a clue, either. But at least I knew she loved us. And when she died I was so sad, and so . . .” She fumbles, searching for the word.

 

“Angry?” He can definitely get that.

 

She nods once. The silence stretches on between them but this time it’s more comfortable. He starts reviewing the tablet again. Nothing is outwardly suspicious about their neighbors – but they do all work, in some capacity or another, for the same tech company, Luminescent. Including Ted and Gen – Ted’s a VP, and Gen is in accounting. Peter knows entire towns are often built around big companies, but given why they’re here, it’s almost too much of a coincidence.

 

He looks up when he notices Covey’s gone to the kitchen and is pulling bowls and utensils out. “What are you doing?” he calls.

 

“Baking.”

 

“I can see that. But why are you doing it right now? More experiments?”

 

“No. I’m stress baking. I do it to relax.” She puts on some music – old stuff, like motown or doo-wop or whatever, and starts humming along. “I want cupcakes. Do you want cupcakes? I’m in the mood for chocolate Oreo cupcakes.”

 

“Um . . .” He peers over the top of the couch, watching her flutter about with measuring cups and eggs and a package of Oreos.

 

That does sound good, actually.

 

“Yeah, hit me up, thanks.” He checks her abandoned laptop. The decoding program is only half-way done. He picks up the remote control to the tv. It’s not as an amazing set-up as the one downstairs in the basement, but it’ll definitely do. “And hey, _Fight Club_ is on.”

 

“Never saw it,” she calls, measuring out flour.

 

“Are you kidding me?!” he exclaims, shocked. “You’ve never seen _Fight Club_?”

 

“I’m more of a John Hughes fan,” she says, wryly.

 

“Who?”

 

“ _Sixteen Candles_? _The Breakfast Club_?” He shrugs. “Oh, my god. Okay, fine. You put on _Sixteen Candles_ , we will munch on my delicious cupcakes, and then, we will watch your _Fight Club._ ”

 

“Why are we watching my movie second, when it’s on right now?” She glares at him. “Come on, Covey, you won the master bedroom. Throw a guy a bone.”

 

At that, she smiles, and shakes her head. “Fine. _Fight Club_ first.”

 

He grins, and she blushes, which he decides is a very nice look on her. He pauses _Fight Club_ and picks up the remnants of their take-out as she finishes up the cupcakes. Then they plop down on opposite ends of the couch and start viewing, the laptop in between them. Soon enough, the house fills with the smell of warm chocolate and about forty minutes into the movie they have to pause so she can rescue the cupcakes from the oven.

 

“I can’t frost them until they’ve cooled,” she explains.

 

“I’ll take one unfrosted,” he says, quickly, and promptly stuffs one in his mouth. She makes an affronted sound that sound, but he chews away. “That’s awesome. You should do this professionally.”

 

She looks up at him, brow quirked, like she’s trying to figure him out, but her smile is pleased. “Thank you.”

 

The laptop beeps. Peter rushes over, Lara Jean trailing. “Shit,” he says, realizing. “You said you didn’t manage to get a full copy, right?”

 

“No, Gen was saying she had to get home, so I didn’t want to get caught,” she says. She peers at the screen herself. “It only decoded half of what I got?” she groans.

 

“There is some heavy-duty encryption here,” he says, scrolling through the report. “We’re gonna have to call in Lucas. This could take some time.”

 

Lara Jean wipes her face with a hand. “I thought we could get in, get out,” she grumbles, so lowly he has to strain to hear.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Never mind,” she says, quickly. She seems to gather herself and asks, “What did it actually decode, anyway?”

 

He scrolls through the reports. A lot of it is personal stuff, the kind of things you see in a regular joe schmoe’s computer – banking information, bills, web history. But huge chunks of information remain heavily encrypted, the intermediate-level decoding program having only managed to partially unscramble what information Lara Jean managed to get.

 

“Not much,” he admits. “But it does look promising. I mean, what civilian would have this level of encryption?” He shuts down the laptop. “We’ll send it to Lucas in the morning.”

 

“Can’t we send it now?” she asks. “So he can get a head start.”

 

“Covey, it’s almost midnight. What’s the rush? That desperate to get away from me?”

 

“No!” she exclaims, so quickly he almost laughs. She glares at him. “It’s not that, it’s just . . .” Then she gives up, and says, “Yeah, fine. The morning’s fine.”

 

He frowns at the tone in her voice, like she’s almost defeated. So, to perk her up, he sets the laptop down on the couch and hops down next to it. “Besides,” he says, “we were in the middle of my movie.”

 

She checks the time on her watch again. “I dunno, like you said, it’s almost midnight – ”

 

“ _And_ I want to taste those cupcakes when they’re properly frosted,” he adds, pointing the remote at her. “Come on, you can’t leave me hanging.” He gives her his most winning smile.

 

That blush is back, and he decides he likes this look on her slightly better than that thing she does with her face when he’s actively teasing her. But only slightly.

 

“Okay,” she finally agrees. “But I can’t promise I won’t fall asleep on you.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively, and she splutters, turning even pinker, “I meant, you know – not _on_ you, on you, the figurative on you, not the literal – oh, shut _up_.”

 

-tbc-

  

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry - work got nuts again, then we went on vacation, then I had to catch up with work. This is short, please bear with! And thank you! :)

Peter lifts his head from the pillow, wondering what woke him, until he takes a deep breath to yawn. Cinnamon. Coffee. And the smell of ...

 

“Morning,” Lara Jean says, when he pads into the kitchen. She hands him a plate piled high with bacon and eggs. “Coffee’s done. Cinnamon rolls are still in the oven, if you want any.”

 

“Stress baking?” he asks, leaning against the island. He looks at the plate for only half a second and digs in. _Guy could get used to this._

 

“No. Well, a little.” She takes a sip of coffee and grins at him sheepishly over the rim of her mug. “I sent Lucas the stuff after movie night. So he should be letting us know something any minute.”

 

Peter notices the opened laptop before the seat next to him. “Wow, rude. You probably gave the poor guy an aneurysm.”

 

“I’ll make him some brownies,” she says, dismissive. “He loves my brownies.” Before Peter can respond, the timer pings and Lara Jean quickly dons an oven mitt and pulls out the cinnamon rolls. She starts frosting the batch almost maniacally.

 

Peter raises his brows at her back. Then her phone rings.

 

“No, Kitty ... I’m pretty sure I left it in the hallway closet ... Yes, positive! ... Well, move the comforter then! ... See? Great ... uh, hopefully soon. Tom really wants me to check out another estate sale while I’m up here ... Well, people die all the time Kitty, I can’t help it that my boss wants me to buy stuff from them ... Yes, in Portland! It’s like estate sale Mecca here ... Okay. Well, you have my credit card. Just don’t go too crazy. Thanks. Love you too.” She slides her phone back into her back pocket and continues frosting the rolls with renewed frenzy.

 

Peter gets up and helps himself to some coffee, wondering how to phrase what he’s about to say. Something’s a little off about the way she’s acting. Yesterday, during her impromptu recon, she seemed a little reckless, unpredictable - not, necessarily, in a _bad_ way. Just ... surprising. It had forced him to reevaluate his opinion of her. And last night, she seemed a little more open, a little less guarded. It had been nice. Fun, even - despite her taste in movies. So what gives?

 

As he stirs in some milk and sugar, he asks, casual, “So is that why you want to finish this op so fast? So you can get back to your little sister?”

 

She looks surprised. “How’d you know I have a sister?”

 

“‘Cause you guys live together and I’ve seen both of you around at the apartment? Kitty, right?” She still looks surprised. “I helped her out that day with the dog.” The kid had been loaded with groceries and her backpack and a rambunctious dog who apparently thought a torrential downpour was the appropriate time to start barking like crazy. She couldn’t open the door to the complex to save her life.

 

A pause. “I ... didn’t think you remembered,” Lara Jean says.

 

Of course he remembers. He’d tried to subtlety ask the kid her older sister’s name but Kitty was having none of it. Then Lara Jean and swept in, thanked him with a smile but a glance that didn’t reach his gaze, and had ushered them all up the stairs without another word.

 

Lara Jean finishes up the frosting. “I mean, besides the fact I may have to kill a former friend of mine, and it’s not exactly sitting well with me no matter how much I don’t like Gen, yeah, I’d like to be able to get back to my little sister.”

 

“Nah, I mean there’s something else, besides all that,” Peter says, putting the milk back into the fridge.

 

She eyes him, speculative. “Forget about me. I just find it hard to believe you’re one hundred percent fine with possibly offing your ex. With whom you’re clearly still in love with.”

 

He makes a face, not pleased at the deflection. “I’m not still in love with -“ She raises her brows at him, all judgey-eyes. “We had history. But that’s it - history. And, push comes to shove, if - and that’s still a big if - if Gen is in fact running guns, and the Company wants us to ...” He shrugs his shoulders, ignoring the slight pit of unease in his stomach. Could he do it? He’d have to.

 

“She’s running guns,” Lara Jean says, simply. “You said it yourself, that laptop is encrypted beyond belief. If she were innocent ...”

 

“That’s Ted’s laptop,” Peter says, immediately.

 

“Which she has ready access to. She could be using it. Maybe even framing him.”

 

“Or he could be framing her. You know from the briefing she was the main account holder for that offshore bank account. Anyone can wire money into something.”

 

Again with the eyebrows. “You’re not exactly objective.”

 

“Neither are you.” She splutters. “Look, you clearly have a thing against her. Some of it might even be understandable. But have you considered it miiiight be clouding your judgment?”

 

Silently, she points to a pot on the stove. Then the tea kettle. Peter looks at her, uncomprehending. She rolls her eyes and stamps a foot, points again, and then at the pot of coffee. “Pot! Kettle? Black!”

 

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Covey. What do you know? You probably wouldn’t.” Bent over the pan of cinnamon rolls, it’s a subtle thing - the sudden stiffness of her spine. Peter grins, gleeful, smelling blood. “Ha! Okay, what’s his name? What happened?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mumbles, cutting the cinnamon rolls apart.

 

“Was it another agent? A civvie? I bet he looked like what’s his face from last night’s movie - what - um,” he snaps his fingers, “Jake Reynolds? Although I dunno what you see in him, I’m way better looking than that guy.”

 

Lara Jean places a cinnamon roll on his plate - or rather slams it down. Crumbs fly and a drop of icing splashes onto the counter. “I was testing new drug combos this morning and got a little distracted,” she says, brusquely. “And it’s Jake _Ryan_.”

 

Without missing a beat, Peter stares directly into her eyes, picks up the cinnamon roll ... and takes a big, slow bite. Her brows pull slowly inward, and her lips press slightly together, pinched - and he thinks, in triumph - _Yep, there it is again_. Like she doesn’t know if she should punch him in the nuts or yell at him or ... something else.

 

He kinda wants to know what that something else is.

 

Peter winks at her. Lara Jean’s face turns bright red, and he can feel the corners of his mouth go up even higher. She spins on her heel, muttering. “You know, you’re a real –“ she starts to say as she cleans up the breakfast mess, but then the laptop chimes, and she literally drops everything to answer the call from Lucas.

 

“What’s up, my chickadee,” Lucas says, as his face appears on the screen.

 

“Hey! Sorry about the early morning blast,” she says.

 

“Not on my advice,” Peter calls.

 

“Don’t I know it,” Lucas says. “You’re always late.”

 

Peter, affronted, starts to retort, but Lara Jean interrupts. “What do you got for us?”

 

“That, my dear, is to be determined,” Lucas replies. “I dunno what kinda of hocus-pocus they were doing with their laptop, but it’s severely encrypted. It’s not gonna be a one day thing. I have to get my entire team on it.”

 

Lara Jean wipes her face with her hands, shoulders hunched. “Okay. Two days? Three?”

 

Lucas exhales through his teeth. “Tchh! Try a week, at least!”

 

“A _week_?!”

 

“LJ, honey, we’ve got _five_ other ops going on right now. Boss is looking to gear up a sixth. People are scrambling every which way.”

 

“Lucas, please, come on,” Lara Jean whines.

 

“Sorry, babe,” he says, and he does sound sorry. “Look, at the very least, we know we’re on the right track. They’ve gotta be doing something shady here. Take the week to assess, evaluate. I’ll do my best here.”

 

Peter shrugs his shoulders. “I can do some recon. Why don’t I find myself a job at Luminescent? If Ted’s this shady – ”

 

“Or Gen,” Lara Jean mumbles around her hand.

 

“ – then there might be something there,” Peter says, choosing to ignore her.

 

“Excellent idea,” Lucas says, snapping his fingers. “I’ll write you up the necessary stuff. CVs, background checks . . .”

 

“Just please don’t forget about the decryption,” Lara Jean begs. She sighs. “And what am I supposed to do?”

 

“Make nice with the other wifeys,” Peter says. She rolls her eyes. “No, I’m serious. They might know something.”

 

“Ugh, fine,” she groans. She starts to head up the stairs. “But I’m not going to any essential oil parties or peddling ugly leggings.”

 

“Essential oil parties?” Peter says, confused. “What the hell are those?” he asks Lucas.

 

“No clue,” Lucas says, typing away.

 

Peter appraises him for a long moment. Everybody at the Company knows and works with Lucas. He might know something. “So,” Peter muses, “while we’re waiting, mind telling me what you know about Covey?”

 

“Cute chick, I mean, objectively speaking, since I don’t swing that way,” Lucas says, still typing away. “And genuinely one of the nicest girls I’ve had the pleasure working with. Oh, ask her to make her brownies. Dynamite. I mean, when not laced with cyanide.”

 

“I already know all that. I meant her past partners. Missions. That kind of stuff.”

 

“PK, you know that stuff is classified with a capital C unless directly relevant to one’s current op,” Lucas admonishes.

 

“ ... I’ll put in a good word for you with Adam from R & D.”

 

“ ... I’ll see what I can do.”

 

-tbc-


	6. Chapter 6

Lara Jean leaves Pammy’s house with a spring in her step and a friendly wave. There is a certain kind of loveliness here with some of the town’s residents. Greg and Keisha have been nothing but welcoming, and their young daughter Talia is practically a living doll. And Pammy, the president of the book club here, is a kind, intelligent sweetheart. They’re all good people. Nice people.

 

It’s exactly the kind of life her mom would’ve had. The kind of life Lara Jean would’ve had, if she hadn’t gotten curious about what really happened to her mother.

 

Lara Jean takes the walk back to her house slowly, drafting quick notes into her phone. Besides finding a new friend in Pammy and having a spirited debate with Keisha about which of Toni Morrison’s works is the most underrated, the book club meeting had some valuable intelligence.

 

_Well-respected but there’s some distance there - friendly to everyone but not especially close to anyone. T - Involved in a lot of local philanthropy, boards of trustees, etc. G - head of Greenport Women’s Club, volunteer assistant coach of cheerleading at private high school._

Lara Jean passes by Gen and Ted’s house. As she does so, she notes a gaggle of pretty teenage girls, wearing Adler High athletic wear and carrying pom-poms, making their way up to the front door. _G appears to be close to her students._ It doesn’t surprise her at all that the popular girls have glommed onto Gen, and vice versa.

 

“Hellllllloo girls!” Gen squeals when she opens the door, and the girls reply in high-pitched fashion. As she ushers her students inside, Gen catches Lara Jean watching. To her surprise, Gen waves her over.

 

“LJ, you’re just the person I wanted to see,” she says, a certain kind of gleam in her eye. It immediately sets Lara Jean on high alert.

 

“I am?” Lara Jean says, confused.

 

“Yes! You know, we could _really_ use your baking skills for the next PTA sale,” Gen says, brightly. “I’d say we could make a tidy profit from your cookies. And all for a good cause!” Lara Jean studies her, wary. Gen leans in. “I also wanted to tell you. I’m so happy for you and Peter. I was just a little thrown. You know how it is.” She smiles at her, as sweet as pie. “You two really deserve each other.”

 

Years of experience in the field trained Lara Jean to pretend, to put on an act. So she schools her face into a mask of pleasantness, of warmth. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.” Participating in the bake sale would be helpful. That might mean extra time observing Gen. And she hasn’t been able to get into the house since Greg’s party – either Gen is at home, or Ted. “I’ll be glad to help.”

 

“Fantastic!” Gen chirps, moving forward to give her a hug. Lara Jean accepts the embrace cautiously, but shifts her smile to something more affectionate as Gen pulls away and starts walking back to the house.

 

Lara Jean sets off again, typing in a quick notation into her report on her phone. Even if she ends up finding nothing out during this PTA thing, the very least she can do is find out if Gen’s favorite baked goodie is still a chocolate swirl cheesecake.

 

When she opens the front door and strolls inside, she finds Peter flopped down on the couch, channel surfing. For someone who’d claimed the basement theater set up as his sanctuary, he’s sure up on the main level a lot.

 

“How was your first week of work, dear?” Lara Jean asks drolly, even though she knows the answer. She sets her belongings on the kitchen island and makes her way over to the couch, leaning her hip on the back of the couch and crossing her arms.

 

“Bor-ing!” He heaves a great sigh, and tosses the remote onto the ottoman. “Don’t get me wrong, some of them are nice people – great people – but it’s just so – so – ” He stops, gives up. “And on top of all that, I didn’t manage to get anymore intel. Some stuff I just sent over to Lucas, but honestly? I think it’s just proprietary info. Legit R&D work for a tech company. They are super-busy though. If I didn’t have Lucas’ team on comms telling me what to do I think I’d have been fired on Tuesday.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “What! A! Drag!” But then he brightens and looks up at her. “And how about yours?”

 

“It was . . . nice.” And she’s being truthful. She likes it here, mission notwithstanding. It’s the greatest of ironies – he hates it here, but has no interest in speeding this mission along - and she likes it here, and wants it done as soon as possible.

 

Speaking of which . . .

 

“It’s been five days!” she exclaims, flopping down on the opposite end of the couch. “You’d think Lucas would find out something by now!”

 

Peter shrugs. “He said at least a week.”

 

“Yeah, but I was hoping he was exaggerating.” She looks over her shoulder, towards the kitchen. “So. What’s on the menu today?”

 

“Thai?” Peter asks, hopefully.

 

“Can’t say no to pad see ewe,” she says, in agreement. “What kind of cupcakes?”

 

He screws up his face, as if he’s thinking very hard. She wants to giggle. He looks adorable doing that. She tamps down on her smile, though, when he catches her looking. If she’s being very honest with herself, part of the reason she likes it here is because of him. Take-out and cupcakes and movies and big breakfasts the morning after have become routine.

 

“I don’t even know why I’m asking, I know you want the Reese’s peanut butter cup ones,” she says, pushing off the back of the couch and rolling up her sleeves.

 

“Ah, guess I should be less obvious,” he says, drolly. “You get on that while I order?”

 

“Yeah, just remember it’s my turn to choose the first movie.”

 

“Spoilsport.”

 

*

 

The first movie, as it turns out, is something that Peter had watched back in film class in college. He’d taken it on a whim, when he was still muddling through and considering what the hell he wanted to do with his life. Cool class, easy A, but he only vaguely remembers bits and pieces of it from junior year.

 

“She should’ve stayed. Or he should’ve just gone on that plane with her,” Peter says, shaking his head, as he grabs the last spring roll. “Dumbass.”

 

“It was the noble thing to do,” Lara Jean argues. Before he can pop the spring roll into his mouth, she raises an eyebrow at him. He rolls his eyes and breaks it in half and gives it to her – she’d chided him over taking the last slice of pizza two days ago. “The honorable thing. The right thing.”

 

“The dumbass thing!” he says, chomping into his half.

 

She shakes her head at him, picks up their empty cartons, and goes back to the kitchen, humming “As Time Goes By.” He shakes his head at her and turns off the movie, thumbing through the remote control for his pick of the night. As far as movies go, _Casablanca_ was all right, he supposes. But he’s gonna need some mind-numbing action to decompress from this week. He can’t understand how regular people go about their day without wanting to bash their heads into their keyboards. _Ah. Marvel movie. Excellent._

 

He chooses the first _Iron Man_ movie. Covey settles in next to him, bearing two cupcakes. “How’d you learn how to bake, anyway?” he says, grabbing his.

 

She shrugs, eyes on the screen. “My mom taught all three of us. But it stuck with me the most, I guess. I’d bake on the weekends with my sisters. Margot was the cooker. Kitty the taste-tester.”

 

“Sisters?” He’s known about Kitty, obviously. “Where’s Margot now?”

 

“She’s a professor of anthropology at St. Andrews.” Lara Jean smiles fondly. “Mom would’ve been proud.” She says it with reverence, and a bit of envy. She turns to him. “You said you had siblings?”

 

“Three. That I know of.” He forces himself to not say it bitterly. Truth is, he really doesn’t know beyond them. He could find out, easily, but he likes not knowing. “I have one full brother and two half-brothers. Owen and I – we’re close. Everett and Clayton . . .” He shrugs his shoulders.

 

She worries her lip between her teeth. “You know, I think it’s okay to be mad at him,” she says. She doesn’t say who “him” is. “I would be.”

 

He looks at her – looking at the television screen, picking at the frayed ends of her sleeves. She looks up at him through the fall of her hair, steady. But he doesn’t say anything – uncomfortable that she seems to get it, so simply, so easily . . . uncomfortable and at the same time, underneath that . . . relieved.

 

His tablet beeps. Peter exhales, glad at the respite – Covey grabs the remote and pauses the movie as he picks the tablet up from the end table to check. “Is it Lucas?” she exclaims, excited. “Did he get it decoded?”

 

He opens the e-mail. It’s from Lucas all right, but it’s not what she thinks it is. Grinning, he scans the file before he stands up and paces the room.

 

“Who’s Kenny Campione?”

 

Lara Jean sits up, surprised. “I - uh -“

 

 _Interesting._ “Josh Sanderson?”

 

She stands up. “Where did you -”

 

“This guy - Agent Carlos Meyers - requested you as a partner for the Havana op last year but you turned him down. Why’s that?”

 

“You read my file?!?” she exclaims, shocked. “How did you get all of that?! _Where_ did you get all of that?!”

 

“I have my ways,” Peter says, smugly. She darts forward, hand outstretched, but he holds the tablet above his head. She jumps up, grasping. “And relax, most of it’s redacted! That’s why I’m asking.”

 

“Give it to me!” she shouts, jumping.

 

He peers down at her, gleeful. “Nah.”

 

She glares up at him, brows dipped, lips pinched and pinching further and further in. He practically chortles.

 

It’s the half-millisecond warning that she gives away, that helps him out – the right corner of her mouth curls upward in the barest of snarls, and she pulls her arm back to hook it, sharp and low towards his exposed ribs. Peter drops his arm, blocks the blow, but the force of her punch sends the tablet flying up towards the couch. It lands safely on the cushions. “Hey hey hey that was a little rude!” he says, a little surprised, as he shakes out his arm. That punch hurt. She’s a tiny thing and all agents are trained in hand-to-hand, but in the debrief he’d seen she’d only ranked a 6. It was one of the reasons why he was assigned to partner with her in the first place.

 

“So’s snooping,” she spits. Simultaneously, they glance at the tablet on the couch – then at each other.

 

Peter reaches it first, leaping over the back of the couch to snatch it away. Lara Jean groans, clutching her hair, and he keeps a safe distance away from her, as he scrolls. “Ah. Okay. Ho ho ho, this one? This one has a big red flag.” He lifts his brows, impressed. “An official reprimand! Who’s John Ambrose Mc -”

 

“Shut up,” she says, quietly – so quietly his head snaps up, surprised. He was only teasing. But her face has gone red, and not in the cute, blushing way that she does whenever he does tease her. “You know. Back at the apartment? I thought you were okay. A nice guy. And then we get assigned together, and you started being a jerk - but then this past week, I thought hey - maybe the whole douchebag thing was just an act to get under my skin. Now?” His grin, which had been fading the second she told him to be quiet, flattens out at the chillness in her tone.

 

“Now I know you’re just an asshole.” Then she turns on her heel and flees up the steps. He hears her door slam, echoing.

 

-tbc-


	7. Chapter 7

In the bed, Lara Jean stares at the ceiling for what seems like hours. Her heart doesn’t calm down for any single moment of it, her face red, eyes dangerously close to spilling tears. How dare he ask her about Josh. About John. How _could_ he?

 

She was beginning to think he was an okay guy, softer around the edges than he let on. Especially since she knew he was - _is_ \- in love with Gen. Especially because of his father. That maybe he could understand what it was like, losing someone. But she was wrong, obviously. How could he even _know_ what it was like?

 

 

After a while – she has no idea how long – she hears a soft knock at the door. She doesn’t bother saying anything. Then comes the sound of someone setting something on the floor before the door. Confused, Lara Jean waits until Peter’s footsteps pad away, before she counts to ten and goes to check.

 

Lying on the floor is a plate of . . . Christmas fruitcake cookies? In June? On top of them is a folded piece of paper, with her name on it and a tiny love heart.

 

Her brow furrowing, Lara Jean picks up the plate. The cookies are misshapen, but still piping hot and fragrant. It was a reasonably passable attempt. She unfolds the note.

 

_Sorry._ L

 

Lara Jean sighs. She walks over to the second bedroom. The bluish light of the TV flickers sporadically from underneath the door. She knocks briskly.

 

Peter opens up and she hands him the plate. “These are disgusting.”

 

His eyes widen, then narrow, as if offended. “Uh, gee, thanks, they’re my aunt’s recipe – ”

 

“No, I meant, I kinda hate Christmas fruitcake cookies,” she amends, embarrassed. “But – anyway, the gesture is . . . appreciated.”

 

He chews on the inside of his cheek. “Look, I messed up. I just - you’re a lot more closed off than any of my past partners. And - well - I thought we were beginning to get on the same wavelength. Anyway, if you don’t want to tell me shit, fine. I get that. I won’t ask again.”

 

She sucks in her lips, worries them between her teeth. Blinks rapidly, her gaze elsewhere. “I - look - I know I’m not the best ... personality to work with,” she admits, quietly, to a spot somewhere above his shoulder. “I’ll ... I _will_ talk about it, but just - um ...”

 

“Give you time?”

 

She nods once. Then a few more times, before she whispers good night and starts walking back to the master.

 

“So ... wanna do a stealth op at Luminescent?” he calls, suddenly.

 

Lara Jean turns, confused. “You said there was only legit R & D stuff there.”

 

“Well, I could be wrong. I’m not a tech guru like Lucas is. I just play one on TV.” He leans against the jamb of his door, arms crossed. “Think we should check it out. Who knows? Maybe we find something and it’ll get you out of this op and away from your shitty partner quicker.”

 

“You’re not a shi – ” she says, but then stops. She tilts her head, eyes narrowed, considering. “You’re only doing this to make it up to me.”

 

“Maybe.” He lifts his brows. “Is it working?”

 

She purses her lips, then smiles. He grins back. “Yeah. Lemme get my gear.”

 

*

 

Peter pulls the Jeep off-road and onto a hill overlooking the Luminescent   campus. They pile out efficiently, grabbing gear, but when he hands Lara Jean the sniper rifle, she just looks at it before setting her jaw.

 

“I think I should go in with you.”

 

“Uh, no?” he says. He pulls off the fake wedding ring the Company gave him for their cover and puts it in the side compartment in the trunk before slipping on his gloves.

 

“Uh, why not?”

 

“Uh, because I need a lookout.” She puckers her lips at the sniper rifle, perturbed. “What?”

 

“I’m not about to shoot an eighty-year-old security guard in the back of the head if he stumbles upon you,” she says, finally.

 

“And you’re not gonna, because I’m not gonna get caught,” he says, simply. She looks up at him, brows raised. “What? You don’t believe me?”

 

“Well, if you’re not gonna get caught, you won’t need a lookout,” she argues.

 

“What gives? You do know how to use that thing, right?” Something he read in her report twigs – something about what happened to one of her past partners – but he doesn’t say anything. Most of the report _was_ redacted, giving him only sparse details. If she’s not willing to fill in the blanks for now, well, he’s gotta respect that.

 

She shifts on her feet, annoyed. “You have the subtlety of a jackhammer,” she says. “Why don’t we just go in? Pretend you forgot something? Sometimes the best way isn’t, you know, all this.” She waves a vague hand around at the gear.

 

He frowns at her, exasperated. And a little bit insulted. “That will make it even more suspicious, Covey! Who the hell brings their wife with them to the office after hours?”

 

“I would rather avoid that,” she says, sharply, gesturing at the rifle. Peter rolls his eyes, but then she puts on her hands – her fist against the flat of her other palm. “Let’s shoot for it.” He hesitates, brow furrowed. “What? Scared because you lost the master bedroom last time?”

 

Peter, always up for a challenge – and always pissed off when someone reminds him of a loss – smirks at her. “You’re on.”

 

*

 

“Come in, Cupcakes, come in.”

 

“That is a _ridiculous_ call sign, Kavinsky,” Lara Jean grumbles, glaring through the scope of the rifle as she adjusts the silencer. Perched at the end of a thick branch in the trees, she lies down to get a better view. “I refuse to answer to it.”

 

Peter’s laughter is low in her earpiece. “It seemed really appropriate. I can’t believe you never used one before.”

 

“Because they are dumb!”

 

“You’re just pissed you lost.”

 

She ignores him and instead concentrates on surveying the grounds. She really should’ve insisted on going in. There are security guards prowling outside, but in another moment, she spies a shadow on top of the roof. Peter.

 

“This would be so much easier if you just went up to the security guard with your work badge and kindly explained you left something on your desk – ” she remarks, idly, as she watches him break into the air conditioning exhaust vent.

 

“Right. So they can – unf – escort me to my desk and not have an opportunity – gah – to get anything useful?” Lara Jean rolls her eyes, mentally conceding the point.

 

“Just hurry up, Kavinsky,” she grumbles.

 

She hears him grunt – there’s a slight clatter, like he’s shifting his body down the air shaft. “Not my call sign,” he sing-songs, and his voice comes out echo-y.

 

“Dum-dum?”

 

“Hey!”

 

Lara Jean snickers. “Who came up with yours, anyway?” she asks, conversationally, after a moment.

 

“The guys in training.”

 

“Of course. Male stupidity explains everything.”

 

“Wow, you are on _form_.” She hears a thump, and then a, “I’m in.”

 

Lara Jean peers the night-vision goggles, surveying the windows. Eventually, she sees a shadow come up against one of the top ones – then a quick spark of light from Peter’s flashlight, to indicate he’s in one of the offices.

 

“I’m gonna go to Ted’s. See what he’s got on his work computer.”

 

“Don’t stay too long,” Lara Jean says, watching the shadow move. “You should go to Gen’s, too, while you’re at it.”

 

“She’s in accounting.”

 

“So?”

 

“So, if we’re looking into anything suspicious here, shouldn’t we look at the VP’s computer?”

 

Lara Jean wants to slap the tree branch. “Peter, if she’s in accounting, she can do all sorts of things too. Like launder money.”

 

She can hear him huff. “Okay. Fair point. I’m at Ted’s office.”

 

“Okay.” She trains the binoculars into an office window – she can see him head over to the desk, slip the copy thumb drive in. Then he starts rifling through file folders and taking pictures.

 

She clocks the guards’ patrol patterns as Peter works. Four outside – north, south, east, west, trading off the others position when they meet, which is about every fifteen minutes. Sensible to assume, then, that there’s a similar pattern inside . . .

 

“Kavinsky, come in.”

 

“Kavinsky.”

 

“ _Peter!_ ”

“Call signs,” he says, and this time, she does smack the tree branch.

 

“I am _not_ calling you – ” Her eyes widen. Through a window, she can see the form of a guard enter the hall of Ted’s office floor. He just needs to sweep east and then . . . “Bullets, there’s a guard heading your way, ETA in two minutes.”

 

“Fuck.” Peter tosses the files back into the cabinet, and she sees him dart out the office. But now she’s blind, and she can’t see him.

 

She trains her binoculars down the rows of the windows, searching for a clear path out. “Head down the staircase, east wing,” she says. The windows are all dark there.

 

“On it.” She hears his breath come out in huffs; the tread of his footsteps at a run.

 

“That’ll take you out the back – _shit._ ” Another guard, out of nowhere – on the floor that Peter’s just above. “Stop. Exit here.”

 

She hears the fire door open. “How many?” he asks, grimly.

 

“Two.” At the other end of the building, through another window, she sees the lights go on – another guard, this time on his floor. “Make that three.”

 

“ _Shit._ ”

 

Panic rising, Lara Jean sweeps her binoculars down to the front of the building, then back to Peter’s floor. She still can’t see him through the windows, but she can definitely see the guard on that floor – and the one, coming up from the floor below. Shit. Shit shit shit shit . . .

 

Only one thing left to do.

 

Lara Jean swings down from the tree branch, lands at run on the grass. But before she heads down to the building, she throws her gear into the Jeep, and searches, blindly, for the one item that might just get them out of this mess.

 

*

 

“Covey, come in,” Peter hisses, but she’s not answering. Pissed, he darts into another office. He can hear a guard all the way down the hall, opening doors and checking, before moving on – another, closer to him, on the other side, doing the same. They’ll get to him eventually, and soon. He’s only got two options: fight and fly, which will cause a mess and raise suspicions – or try to play the dumb civilian. Which still might cause a mess and raise suspicions.

 

Fuck it. Quickly, he pulls off his mask, turtleneck and gloves – underneath, he’s wearing a dark t-shirt, but at least he looks like a regular person now. He stuffs the clothing into his backpack, then searches the office for a place to dump it and retrieve it when he “goes back to work” on Monday. It’s an unused space, so he finally settles on pulling open an empty filing cabinet and dropping the backpack in. Then he slips outside the office and calls, friendly-like, “Hello?”

 

“Who’s there? Hands up!”

 

Peter winces at the flashlight in his eyes, but he plays dumb and nice. “Oh, gee, sorry, officer, I was just – ”

 

“What are you doing here? Who are you?”

 

There’s the usual commotion of questions, and then he’s pressed up the wall, and the lights come on, but he thinks he’s got it pretty much handled. “You see, I work here, I just left something at the office and I’m brand new, so I got turned around – it being so dark – look, here’s my work badge, I can’t help it that the system let me swipe in – ”

 

“Yeah, right, man, my bullshit meter is – ”

 

“Peter? Oh, thank goodness!” All of a sudden, Covey’s there, barreling down the hallway at full-speed towards him, another older guard bemusedly following. Before Peter can say anything, she – well, jumps him. There’s a half-second before she pulls him close where she looks up at him, wide-eyed and apologetic, and then she kisses him – open mouthed, damp, full-on kiss. Which . . . he’s not complaining, exactly, but they’ve got a situation here, and he kind of feels like his head is spinning –

 

But then she pulls away, and shoves something in front of his face. The wedding ring he’d left in the Jeep. “Honey, you’re so silly,” she says, and it’s only because they’re so close together that he can her smile is fake, tight at the corners – that her eyes are saying, _Go with it._ “I found it in the soap dish at home.”

 

“ . . . Riiiiiiight. Right!” He laughs, puts an arm around her. Covey notches into his side, pats his chest, and he takes the ring from her – holds it up for the guards. “Isn’t she the best? Of course she finds it right after I come back here looking for it . . .”

 

“I keep telling him, leave it on,” she says, brightly. “But he won’t listen.”

 

The three guards are looking at each other, looking torn between embarrassment and _you guys are lying._ So, he clears his throat, and turns to Covey. “Thanks, baby,” he murmurs, and gives her another kiss, a deeper one. To her credit, she doesn’t start in surprise – but when she pulls away after a moment, the blush is high on her cheeks . . . and the grin he gives her isn’t entirely fake.

 

She clears her throat this time. “Sorry, um, we’re newlyweds,” she mumbles to the guards.

 

The guard who escorted Lara Jean rolls his eyes. “Come on, kids,” he says, gesturing with his flashlight. “Let’s get you guys home.”

 

“Sorry for so much trouble,” Peter says, with a friendly wave to the other two. He keeps his arm around Lara Jean’s shoulders as they walk away.

 

“I get it,” the guard says, as they make their way down the elevators and into the main entry hall. “I lost my wedding ring once. I swear to god, I thought my wife was gonna kill me!”

 

Peter almost jokes that his own wife could, in fact, actually kill him. He catches her eye and she can see she’s thinking the same thing, and trying desperately to hide her grin. “How long have you two been married?” he says, conversationally.

 

The guard unlocks the sliding glass doors for them and ushers them outside. “Thirty-three years,” he says, happily.

 

“I guess you must’ve found the ring,” Lara Jean says.

 

“Damn right I did,” the guard says. “Two months later, in one of my old sneakers! Must’ve slipped off.” They laugh. “Have a good night, kids.”

 

“Thank you.” They turn and walk towards the Jeep – she must’ve driven it to the lot from her hiding spot. As they slide into their seats and buckle in, she says, “The bag?”

 

“Dumped it. I’ll get it on Monday. But I did keep this.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out the thumb drive.

 

She grabs it and grins, holding out her free hand for a high-five. He looks at her, at her gleeful expression, and laughs, then obliges. When they pull out of the lot and onto the open road, she sticks her head out the window and lets loose a loud, “Yaaaaahhhh!”

 

“You’re crazy,” he laughs, but he gets it - the exhilaration, the thrill of making it out, of completing a successful op. He glances at her, smiling softly. Definitely different than what he thought she was. In a good way.

 

She shrugs, settles into the seat with her arms crossed in front of her chest. But through her hair, fluttering in the wind of the open window, her smile is warm, and pleased. “Thank you.”

 

Her blush returns, and he smiles back. “You’re welcome.”

 

-tbc-


	8. Chapter 8

 Lara Jean wakes up the next day humming. Even though it’s the weekend, she uploads the contents of the thumb drive and sends it on its way to Lucas to be analyzed. She doesn’t even ask about his progress with Ted’s laptop. Then, she starts bustling around the kitchen. Coffee on . . . bacon in the pan . . . and shit, she forgot to roll out the cinnamon roll dough and chill it in the fridge. They got in too late and she’d just collapsed in bed. Nibbling the inside of her cheek, she opens up the pantry, then eyes the fruit bowl on the island.

 

Peter comes bounding down the steps not long after. “What, no cinnamon rolls?” he asks, as he pours both of them cups of coffee.

 

Lara Jean laughs softly to herself as she opens the oven to shove the pan of muffin mixture in. “Forgot to prep them,” she says, shutting the door and straightening. “You’ll just have to make do with banana nut muffins.”

 

Peter pretends to stab himself in the chest with his fist. “Oof. Somehow, I think I’ll survive.” She giggles. He hands her the mug and she takes a sip. Two sugars and a dash of milk, just the way she likes it.

 

“I sent the drive contents to Lucas,” she says.

 

“Ah. Cool.” Peter takes a sip of his coffee as he leans against the island. His gaze is on the countertop. “He say anything?”

 

Lara Jean frowns a bit at the change in tone - a little cool, distant. Confused, she murmurs, “No, it’s the weekend. I’ll bug him on Monday.”

 

Just like that, he brightens. “Must be rubbing off on you,” he muses. He winks at her over the rim of his mug.

 

She turns back to the stove and tells herself it’s the heat from the pan that’s making her flush. She just concentrates on getting the bacon done.

 

“So . . .” Behind her back, Peter clears her throat. “Greg texted me. Said he and Keisha are having a few people over tonight for dinner. He’s invited us.”

 

There’s a bit of bacon stuck in the pan. Lara Jean digs at it with the tongs, as she tries to formulate a reply. “That’s nice,” is all she can think to say.

 

There’s a long pause before Peter says, “I figure . . . well, we’re stuck here . . . might give us some intel . . .” Lara Jean sucks in her lips, about to give up on the bacon. “But, you know, I can always tell him we got plans or something – ”

 

“I – uh – ” There. She’s got it. She places the slice on the paper-toweled plate and sets the tongs down, tapping the counter with her palm lightly before turning to face him. He’s scrolling through his phone, completely, casually, at ease. Which makes her feel so stupid for suddenly being so on edge. “No, I mean – ” He looks up from the phone, expectant. “I guess so. Right?”

 

“Right.” Peter looks down, starts typing on his phone. “I’ll let him know it’s a yes.”

 

“Great,” Lara Jean murmurs. She checks the timer on the oven. “I’m going to get dressed,” she says, grateful she’d come down in her robe and pajamas, and rushes up the stairs to hide until the muffins are done.

 

*

 

Peter jiggles his leg as he waits on the couch, then checks his watch. Dinner is at 6:00, and they are not late in any way, but he wishes Covey would just come down already. Breakfast had a weird vibe, and he’d gone for a jog to case Gen’s house – it looked like there were some construction crews were working on something inside, and both cars were in the driveway – but by the time he’d come back, Covey had gone out herself. She’d only just come back and said, in a rush, that she’d be ready for dinner in a few minutes.

 

She finally comes bounding down the stairs, still threading her earrings on and dress swirling around legs just above the knees. He stands up and accidentally says the first thing that flies into his mind – “You look hot,” and then winces internally. Fucking idiot. Everything’s been kind of weird since this morning – which is weirder because he thought they were finally getting to being cool with each other thanks to the mission – and here he is, running his mouth.

 

Thankfully, Covey doesn’t seem to notice his gaffe. “Yeah, I don’t think the vent in the master bathroom is working right,” she says, grabbing onto his shoulder to balance as she pulls her pumps on. “The bathroom is still steamed up from my shower.”

 

Well, that’s another image he’ll have to valiantly erase from his brain. Instead, he clears his throat and offers his arm. She accepts with a small smile, grabs the triple chocolate cake she made for dessert, and together they make their way to Greg and Keisha’s.

 

Darrell and Pammy are already there, plus a few other couples Peter doesn’t really know. He’d meant what he told Covey earlier – this is a suburban hellscape – but the people _are_ nice, and fun. He honestly can’t remember the last time he had an extended conversation with a group of guys his own age about sports or movies or whatever the hell else is going on – well, a genuine one. For the past few years, every interaction with civilians meant keeping a polite distance . . . and anything else? Outright subterfuge. So, in a way, it is nice to kick back and relax a bit and literally talk about anything, and enjoy good food. The kids are dashing too and fro around the living and dining area, mouths full of Lara Jean’s cake, but no one seems to care.

 

“Can you teach me how to make these kinds of stuff?” Talia asks, after she stops running around for half a second to polish off her slice.

 

“Sure,” Lara Jean says, genuinely interested. “You come on over anytime.” Peter nudges her underneath the table with his foot. Perhaps not a good idea, when they have all of their gear and other distinctly non-civilian stuff lying around. “Um, I mean, call ahead, though.” Then she turns to Keisha. “That’s such a beautiful necklace,” she says, touching the heart-shaped locket lying against Keisha’s collarbone.

 

“Oh thanks,” Keisha says, handing Covey another drink. “Greg picked it up for me years ago, at a thrift shop. It’s the little things, you know?”

 

“Yeah,” Lara Jean smiles, wistfully. “My mother had one, just like it.”

 

Peter puts a hand between her shoulder blades, gentle. She doesn’t start, but leans into him a little bit, as he rubs, soothing.

 

“Sorry we’re late.” Gen breezes in, pulling out a wine bottle. There are a few cheery hellos from around the table, kisses and hand shakes go around. Ted and Gen takes their seats, and she glances at Peter, a question in her eyes over the rim of her wine glass. Peter looks away, only to catch Covey’s looking at him. He lifts his brows – _What?_ – but she doesn’t say anything. She just pulls away slightly, and continues to eat her salmon with utter concentration.

 

*

 

The couples with children have started to leave to put them to bed – Talia, finally off her sugar high, is lolling about on the couch, weary-eyed, sleepy, but determined to stay up longer. Her parents indulge her, and Lara Jean is happily chattering away with the little girl, all about dolls and cartoon characters and – well, Peter’s not sure what, he’s just kind of fascinated by the look on Lara Jean’s face. There’s a contentment there he hadn’t really noticed before, being around these people. A simple joy, that briefly flared during their stealth op, but is more present here.

 

“You thinking of having any soon?” Greg asks, handing him another beer.

 

“What? Uh – ” Peter had joked with Covey before that it was part of their cover story, but he’s a little thrown to be so baldly asked before he recovers. “Yeah. Um, someday. I mean, we just got married.”

 

“I get it,” Greg says. “They’re life changers, kids.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter says, quietly. He takes a big gulp of his beer, uncomfortable. “I’m gonna steal some more of my wife’s cake.”

 

He slips into the butler’s pantry. There’s barely any cake left on the counter, but he starts cutting himself a slice when suddenly the door closes behind him.

 

Peter turns around. Gen’s locked the pantry door from the inside, eyes wide. “Peter,” she whispers, stepping up close to him. “Finally.”

 

“Whoa – wait – ” He takes a step back, against the counter.

 

Gen leans in close. “I don’t have much time,” she says.

 

He doesn’t say anything, gauging her. She’s nervous, eyes darting. Something’s off. “I need your help. I’m in trouble.”

 

“I think you should call the police then,” he says, neutral.

 

She shakes her head. “Peter, I know you went into Luminescent last night.” He forces himself not to react. “I know you’re not who you say you are.” Again, he tries to not to react. She licks her lips. “You’ve got to help me. My husband – Ted – he’s . . .” She lets out a shaky laugh, on the verge of tears. “He’s a _monster_. Please, Peter, you’ve got to help me.” She reaches for him, hands clutching the front of his shirt.

 

“Okay, hold up,” he says, gently, trying to loosen her grip, to get her to calm down – but then suddenly she’s surging up, and before he can stop her, her mouth is on his.

 

“Genevieve?” Ted’s voice calls faintly from somewhere out in the house.

 

Gen pulls away, wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. “Peter, you’ve got to help me,” she whispers, one last time. Then she unlocks the pantry door and calls, “I’m coming, sweetheart,” before disappearing.

 

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay! been nuts with work and the kids started school again. :)


	9. Chapter 9

“‘And then Harold made his bed. He got in it and he drew up the covers. The purple crayon dropped on the floor. And Harold . . . dropped off to sleep.’ Okay, and that’s it,” Lara Jean says, quietly shutting the board book. “Thanks for letting me read to you, Talia.”

 

The little girl yawns and blinks up at her from under the covers. “You’re nice,” she says, sleepily.

 

Lara Jean smiles, charmed. “And so are you.”

 

“Do you have kids?” Talia asks.

 

She keeps her smile frozen on her face, despite the sudden squeeze in her chest. “No, I don’t.” She leans forward, conspiratorial. “But that’s okay, because no one could be as cute and adorable as you.”

 

“You should. Maybe I can babysit!”

 

“Don’t you think six years old is a little young for baby-sitting?”

 

Talia shakes her head. “Well, when the baby is three I will be . . . “ She checks her fingers, counting along in whispers, and Lara Jean giggles. “Nine! That’ll be old enough then, right?”

 

“We’ll talk about this later,” Lara Jean says, and gives her a fist bump. “Good night, sweetie.”

 

“G’night, LJ.”

 

“You really didn’t have to do that,” Keisha, says, waiting for her at the top of the stairs with two cups of tea. “She can be such a handful.”

 

“It was my pleasure,” Lara Jean says, honestly. She takes her cup and sits down next to Keisha. “And she was wonderful, really.” She sips her tea. “In a way, she reminds me of someone I used to know.”

 

“Well, when you and Peter have some of your own, you can see just how wonderful it is,” Keisha jokes. Lara Jean forces herself to pull the corners of her mouth up in a smile behind her teacup. Maybe it’s because she’s tired, but Keisha notices. “Hey. Is everything all right with you two? I know we haven’t known each other long but . . . if you ever need to talk . . .”

 

“What? Oh, no, everything’s fine,” Lara Jean says quickly.

 

Keisha eyes her, skeptical. “Really? For newlyweds, you guys seem a little . . . off.”

 

Inside, Lara Jean sighs. Guess they couldn't really pull off fake married couple vibes. She just can’t have someone digging into her – into _their_ – lives right now. But what kind of excuse can she make up on the fly? “We’re, um, just – ”

 

“Fighting? Just make up with the guy. The sexy apologetic eyes he keeps throwing at you . . . whew.”

 

 _Wha – huh?_   “Um, no, we’re not fighting." _What is she talking about?_ Regardless, she needs to make up some excuse, and fumbles, "I guess, you know. Like you said. Newlyweds. We’re just new at this."

 

“Yeah. When Greg and I first moved into together, lemme tell you it was a _trial_ ,” Keisha says, oblivious. “Like, the man didn’t clean. At all.”

 

Lara Jean snickers, relieved to have changed the topic. Before she can reply, Gen and Ted come into the foyer, talking in hushed voices. “Thank you, Keisha, it was lovely as always,” Ted calls up to them, as he opens the front door.

 

Gen looks up at Lara Jean, her expression enigmatic. A sudden chill goes down Lara Jean’s spine. “The PTO sale is Thursday at 8pm,” Gen says, friendly enough. “If you can bring your stuff to the middle school gym at 7:30 that’ll be great.”

 

“Sure,” Lara Jean says, brightly. “Do you still like chocolate swirl cheesecake? I was thinking of making that.”

 

Gen slings her handbag over her shoulder. It’s slight - the way her eyes seem to harden, diamond-like, but Lara Jean can see it. Whatever it is. “No, I’m on a diet,” she declares. “It’s really whatever you want to make. Keisha, it was fantastic. Although – salmon? Tad dry.”

 

“Thanks for coming,” Keisha chirps, waving. “Good night!” As soon as the door closes, Keisha rolls her eyes and Lara Jean bursts into laughter. “God. What a B.”

 

“For the record, the salmon was delicious,” Lara Jean says through her giggles. “Why did you invite them?”

 

“You gotta invite your husband’s boss. Especially when he lives on the same street!” Keisha says, with a wave of her hand. “He works Greg too hard. When they passed Greg up for VP last year and promoted Ted . . .” She sighs. “But anyway. I guess he’s all right. Even though he likes them young.” She makes a face. “Both of them are constantly cheating on each other.”

 

“Hmm?” This had never come up before at all the book club meetings and idle conversations with Pammy and Keisha before.

 

“Oh yeah, definitely.” Keisha hesitates, then adds, haltingly, “Just be careful around her. I – um – well, I think she’s got the hots for your husband.”

 

Not knowing how to even respond to that, Lara Jean settles for a blank expression instead. “Well,” she says, measured, “I guess she has good taste.”

 

Keisha laughs. Just then, Peter comes into the hallway. “Hey,” he calls. “Ready to go?”

 

“Yeah. Keisha, thank you – ” Keisha takes the cup from her and they hug.

 

Peter’s strangely quiet as they make their way back to the house, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his gaze on the ground. The night is chilly and Lara Jean hugs herself, rubbing her bare arms. She really should’ve brought a cardigan. “So, I learned some interesting tidbits today,” she says, just to break the ice.

 

“Huh? What?” Peter finally looks up at her.

 

“Gen and Ted? Cheating on each other,” she says. “Not sure if that factors into anything, but good to know.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah I guess so.”

 

They reach the house. Inside, Lara Jean kicks off her pumps and starts up the stairs. “Well, goodnight,” she says.

 

Peter nods, distant - heads towards the kitchen. She’s halfway up before he says, “Hey, wait. Covey.”

 

“Yeah?” She stops, turns. He’s at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed, his gaze towards the front door.

 

“You sent the wipe program before we left Luminescent, right?”

 

“Of course,” she says. “During the car ride. Why?” She pulls out her phone from her purse just to check. The program to conveniently erase security camera footage at key times and make it seem Peter swiped into the building with his work badge did, in fact, send.

 

“Just checking,” he says, quietly. He gives her a limp smile. “Think I need a nightcap. G’night.”

 

“Okay. Good night,” she says, weirded out. Something occurs to her – the night before, and tonight, is the first time they haven’t had a movie night. She hadn’t meant to act . . . well, so _stupid_ , this morning. She hopes he’s not offended or anything like that. Maybe she should say something.

 

But then she remembers the look Gen gave him when she arrived at the party, and what Keisha said – and she thinks, _No,_ maybe she shouldn’t. It’s not like anything – whatever anything even _is_ – could happen, overactive imagination or not.

 

Besides, hasn’t she learned her lesson already?

 

So she says nothing, and goes up to her room. Gets dressed in her comfiest pajamas, does her nightly skincare prep. But before she goes to bed, she opens up the master closet.

 

She only brings the hatbox along if she’s in deep cover and has a safe place to put it. She takes it off the shelf and sets it on the bed, opening it up.

 

There are four letters there – stamped, addressed, unopened and unmailed. One, the oldest – to her mother, written on the day she found out what really happened to her. The second is to Josh, pouring out her horror and guilt, and all her apologies. The third is to Kenny – not as long, but just as stricken.

 

The last one is to John.

 

She ignores them all, and picks up the snow globe that lies on top of the small stack of letters. A girl, skating around – a boy, watching her. A perfect picture of a perfect night. Just like how she remembers it.

 

Lara Jean gives the globe a shake, then puts it on the nightstand and curls into bed.

 

If things had been different . . . if she had been an ordinary girl, just another regular grad student in love with her handsome and smart boyfriend . . . and not someone who could kill another person twice her size without hesitation . . . would she be in some place like this? Maybe with a little girl of her own? With Lara Jean’s eyes and . . . and John’s hair and his warm brown skin and a laugh all her own . . .

 

Lara Jean turns on her side, looks at the snow globe. She watches, eyelashes fluttering slowly, until the last snowflake falls.

 

*

 

Peter waits until he’s sure Lara Jean is asleep. Then, he goes to the basement, where they keep their extra gear. He finds a burner cell phone, saves his number into it. Then he packs it up in a fake Amazon box and prints out a shipping label to make it look like it’s actually been mailed to Genevieve Blake. He watches the street until every house has turned off their lights before he leaves, setting out for Gen and Ted’s.

 

There’s one light on, in a bedroom.

 

Peter hesitates, but places the box inside the mailbox at the curb. Then he heads back to the house.

 

He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t sleep much, either. He keeps having a dream of when they broke up – him, frustrated, angry, pissed that she just kept pulling her same, needy shit; her, finally crying real tears this time. ( _“You’re the only person who could ever understand.”)_ Him, relieved it was finally over, and feeling guilty all the same.

 

(And strangely enough, Covey, too – glaring at him in disappointment.)

 

When he wakes up the next morning, he’s aware that she could be bullshitting him. That this is some sort of trap. But what else can he do right now?

 

The text message doesn’t come until movie night, over Thai leftovers. Lara Jean is giggling over Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, her tablet with her report for the past few days half-completed and totally forgotten, and he’s still staring at his own blank report, cursor blinking, when his phone buzzes.

 

_Diner._

 

“I’m gonna go for a run,” he says, picking up his empty cartons.

 

“What?”

 

Peter stamps down on the sudden swell of guilt. He could be imagining it, but she looks a little hurt. Any other night – hell, as early as last night – he’d have crowed about it, teased her. Watched for any sign of her cheeks reddening. Now he feels like a shifty bastard.

 

He should tell her. There are a bunch of reasons to tell her – it’s standard procedure. It might be a trap, and he’ll need her watching his six. Since his cover’s blown, it might – it _does_ – mean that hers is, too, and that makes it even more dangerous.

 

And yet he shouldn’t. Because Gen came to him – and she was scared – and it’ll be safer for everybody involved if he does recon himself, for now.

 

(That’s what he tells himself, at least.)

 

“Missed it this morning,” he lies, with a casual shrug. “Rain check?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” she says, settling back into the couch. She draws the afghan up under her chin and smiles up at him, adorably. “Have a nice run.”

 

He nods, throws the cartons in the trash. He goes up to change, then checks on Covey. She’s still enraptured in the movie, oblivious. But he walks down the block to get an Uber, so that she won’t hear him start the Jeep.

 

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book that LJ reads to Talia is from Crockett Johnson's "Harold and the Purple Crayon."


	10. Chapter 10

Lara Jean looks up from the print-outs, spread out on the couch and living room floor. Her tablet just chimed. Grateful for the interruption, she uncrossed her legs and stands and stretches before heading to the kitchen island.

 

_How are these? Took your notes and made the necessary corrections. I don’t think there’s enough room for that many stools, but –_

 

Delighted, Lara Jean brings up the plans. The designs are _perfect._ Exactly how she imagined – glass display cases to the left, met by marble countertops that sweep to the right. And an old-fashioned cash register. She still has yet to _find_ one, of course, but she’s been hunting the Portland-area antique shops in her spare time while she’s here. She’s sure she’ll find one. soon. Maybe Peter’s mom will have one in her store . . . when he’d mentioned his mother owned an antique store the other night, Lara Jean had been beside herself with glee, much to Peter’s amusement.

 

(They’d been out with Greg and Keisha and Talia at a restaurant downtown, and she didn’t know what to make of it, because it had only been a few nights since the dinner party, and things had been weird between her and Peter – tepid, was the only way she could describe it. But then he started coming back from Luminescent with data he’d stolen, and she’d been working diligently on analyzing them, and things were slowly getting back to normal between them, however one could define normal.

 

She’d gotten distracted by the antique shop’s display next door. He’d huffed that his mom had better stuff and she’d rounded on him, astonished. He’d laughed at her reaction and at her prompting, said, grinning, “I dunno, it’s cute.”

 

“Cute?” She’d wrinkled her nose, smiling back.

 

“Yeah. Cute.”

 

She’d blushed and went back to admiring the ornate dressing table and mirror set. “Your mom’s place must be amazing, because this stuff looks pretty neat,” she’d said.

 

“Yeah, she’s got a good collection. I used to help her out in high school. Drag things back and forth for her, work the register. Do inventory. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was a pretty cool way to grow up.” He’d paused, head tilted. “Well, except the inventory part. That sucks no matter what.”

 

She’d smiled back at his reflection in the glass. “It all sounds like a dream,” she’s said, pretty dreamily, before Keisha called to them that their table was ready. Peter had threaded his fingers through hers and pulled her gently towards the restaurant. He’d done it again when dinner was over, almost on instinct, and she hadn’t even thought to pull away. And they walked back to the Jeep, and he’d just held her hand even though he didn’t have to, there wasn’t anyone else around and –)

 

Her phone pings.

 

_You want fries too?_

 

_When have I ever said no to fries Kavinsky?_

Peter texts her a laughing face emoji. Then, _Can we please watch Predator BEFORE Dirty Dancing?_

 

_You want to watch gross disgusting violence while eating?_

_. . ._

_Point taken._

 

She bites her lip against her smile, then starts scurrying around to start frosting the tiramisu cupcakes – her personal new fave, and one that she wants to surprise Peter with. She puts some music on – Marvin Gaye – and as she’s bopping around, piping bag working furiously, some frosting spills over and she wipes it up with her fingers. It sticks to her wedding ring – the fake wedding ring. And she stops, altogether, watching it glint in the light.

 

Pretty soon, this’ll all be over. She’s been steadfastly working on compiling all that data strewn around the house. No more take-out and movie nights and (fake) date nights with other (real) couples and testing recipes on a very willing Peter. He’ll go off on another op, somewhere far away, and she’ll . . . she’ll finally be out of this life, out of Company life, in her long-awaited bakery. And she’s suddenly realizing how much she’ll mi –

Her tablet chimes once more. Thinking it’s the architect again, Lara Jean finishes frosting the cupcakes, washes her hands, and taps on her tablet, only to see that it came to her Company address. Frowning, she opens the message from Lucas.

 

_Hey, LJ – Sorry for the delay. I know I said one week and now it’s turned to over two with nothing to show for it. My bad. Just wanted to let you know I should have a report for you by the end of the week, promise._

Lara Jean feels her frown deepen as she looks towards the print-outs scattered in the living room. _Huh?_

 

Peter had been bringing her the print-outs for the past week, after his workdays at Luminescent. It was a little weird that Lucas would give them the decoded portions of the thumb drive piecemeal like this – and without an analysis – but she’d been too eager to get her hands on _something_ she hadn’t even questioned the circumstances. She’d just assumed . . .

 

She’s about to reply to Lucas’s e-mail, asking what the hell is going on, when the front door opens. “Hooooney, I’m hooooome,” Peter calls, jokingly. She can see him dutifully toe off his shoes in the hall – she’s been on him about that – and he saunters into the kitchen, take-out in hand. “Ooo, what are these?” he asks, swiping a cupcake before she can stop him, as he sets the take-out bag on the island.

 

“Peter!” she says, moving to grab it back. Like always, she says, “Don’t ruin your dinner.”

 

“Trust me, I’ll have enough room for both,” he says, holding it up high enough so she can’t reach, but low enough that he can still strain his neck upwards and bite into it. “Well, what are these? I need to know before I sample.”

 

She stands on her tiptoes and grabs his wrist, laughing. “Tiramisu cupcakes. Give it back.”

 

“That’s an actual thing?” he asks, then takes a huge bite as they semi-wrestle over the cupcake. “Oh, my god. Yup, an actual thing. These are freaking awesome. You’re a genius.”

 

“I wouldn’t know, I haven’t had a bite yet,” she says, sticking her tongue out at him.

 

“Here.” He holds out the other half for her to bite into. Lara Jean hesitates, sucking in her lips, as she meets his gaze. The playful look in them is slowly shadowing into something else. Too confused ( _scared_ ) to determine what, exactly, it may be, and absolutely resolved to not make this awkward, she takes a tentative bite, even as she feels her cheeks heat.

 

“Needs more rum,” she mumbles, wiping at the crumbles on her lip, looking up at him from under her lashes.

 

He glances away, polishes off the rest. “Nah, they’re great,” he says, evenly, like nothing just happened. _Which nothing did_ , Lara Jean reminds herself sternly. _He just likes to flirt. That’s it._ Besides, rules are rules . . . “Although who am I to argue against adding more alcohol?” He looks at some of the papers on the island. “What did this latest batch say?”

 

“Oh.” She suddenly remembers the e-mail from Lucas. “I – well, it’s actually kind of confusing.”

 

Peter looks up, reaching for another cupcake. “What is it?”

 

She gestures vaguely at the tablet, then back at the papers scattered everywhere. “Where’d you get all this info, anyway?”

 

He pauses, and lets go of the cupcake.

 

Lara Jean turns off the music. She needs to think. “I just assumed you’d stolen it from when you went to the office, or that Lucas was decoding things and giving it to you as he went along, but then he just messaged me and apologized for _not_ getting us anything when he said he would so I’m a little confused and just wanted to confirm . . .?”

 

He runs a hand through his hair – then stuffs both of them in his pockets, rocks back on his heels. “Okay, look . . . I – Gen came to me last week.”

 

Lara Jean feels her eyes bug out of her face. _Oh, no._

 

“She . . . said she knew who I was.”

 

Lara Jean groans, slapping her forehead. Everything is coming into slow focus . . . his weirdness after Greg and Keisha’s dinner party, that odd vibe between them for those days afterwards – even the way Gen reacted when Lara Jean personally handed her the chocolate swirl cheesecake for the PTO sale, squirrelly and short. Lara Jean hides her eyes behind her hand, huffing.

 

“Wait wait wait, just listen . . . that she was in trouble – that Ted’s the middleman, running guns. She’s been getting bits and pieces whenever she can from Ted’s computers.”

 

Lara Jean slides her hand down to her mouth, sighs through her fingers – shakes her head, and just glares up at him, sad and frustrated.

 

“You? Are _such_ a dumbass.”

 

-tbc-


	11. Chapter 11

Peter had just wanted to go home - have a beer. Kick his feet up. Eat delicious cupcakes. He’d gotten excited because he’d seen Covey researching new recipes the night before, but then he’d skipped lunch because Gen had messaged him frantically with more stuff and then he’d had to review what she’d brought him and long story short he’s exhausted and has a headache and getting confronted by his fake wife about his admitted shadiness and flagrant breach of protocol is just icing on the proverbial cupcake.

 

It’s stupid, not to mention kind of unsettling if he really thought about it, about how much he’d just wanted to have a nice, relaxing night and watch Covey work herself into a state of apoplexy when he’d say _You’ve Got Mail_ was better than _Sleepless in Seattle_ (not true, but he just likes watching her eyebrows spasm), or get into yet another fight with her about the ending of _Casablanca_ (“I’m telling you, it was the right thing to do!” “Dumb! Ass! Move!”), or pretend he actually cares when she inevitably says _Fight Club_ was completely overrated (he actually does kinda care that she thinks that).

 

But now, of course, is the time everything explodes in his face. His fault, definitely. But he’s also a bit alarmed that this isn’t going as planned. Although, to be honest, he never had a plan to begin with. He was just sort of winging it, hoping that things would work out if he could just manage this desperate sort of balancing act. That Covey would just magically understand, once he explained everything. If he could work up the right way to explain everything.

 

“Look, hear me out,” Peter fumbles. “You just don’t understand the situation here.”

 

“Oh, I heard,” Lara Jean says. “ _How_ could you blow your cover? On purpose!”

 

“Technically, I didn’t,” he points out. “She got wind of the wipe program going through the system. And she made sure it actually worked, so it wouldn’t alert Ted.”

 

“Or she told him and he knows too,” Lara Jean says. Then she pauses. “Does she know about me?”

 

He hesitates. “Yes.”

 

Lara Jean groans again.

 

“Well, it was the logical conclusion,” he says. “I mean, she figured it out after – ”

 

“So, they _both_ know about us – ”

 

Peter shakes his head. “No no no. Ted doesn’t know.”

 

“How do you _know_ that?” Before he can answer, she shakes her head. “Never mind. We have to call it.”

 

“Huh? Call what?”

 

“Call it. The op. We have to call Security and Extraction and get the hell out.”

 

This time, his eyes go wide. “What? _Why?_ We’re just getting started here – ”

 

“Because our covers are blown!” Covey exclaims. “Gen knows everything about us. My father, my sisters – _your_ mother, your brothers! It’s not just our lives in danger, it’s theirs, too.”

 

“Oh come on, how stupid do you think I am?”

 

She rolls her eyes at him. “Do you really want me to answer that question right now?”

 

He rolls his eyes back. “Give me some credit. I messaged Trevor when I met with Gen. He’s had undercovers surveying our families for over a week now. Even your nieces in Scotland. There hasn’t been a peep.”

 

Lara Jean just gives him a long-suffering look. She keeps shaking her head. “Peter – my mom . . . she made one, tiny mistake . . . and it was all over. It was her last mission. She’d just had Kitty. She wanted out. She was done. But . . .” She looks away. “Undercover details don’t always work. She’s the entire reason why the Company said field agents can’t have spouses and kids anymore.”

 

Well, now he feels like even worse shit for lying. He’d always known about that rule – every agent does, but he’d just never thought about its background. “I – I’m sorry,” he says, truly. “I didn’t know. But Trevor is damn good at his job. He’s never had one of his teams compromised.”

 

She shrugs, deflated. “It’s done.” She wraps an arm around herself, rubs the back of her neck with her free hand. “But we still have to call it.”

 

“Covey. I’m sorry, we can’t. We’re too close.” He wipes his face with his hand, then digs into the bag he carries for work and pulls out his tablet. He turns it on and hands it to her. “She just gave me these. I was debating how to give them to you when . . . anywhere, here they are. Spreadsheets, e-mails, texts, deposit slips. Everything I gave you the past week, plus this, will make a case. The only thing she doesn’t have is Ted’s personal ledger. She’s not sure where it is. But that, according to her, has everything. Real names, real locations – not drop points. Everything to bring down Ted and both cartels.”

 

Lara Jean scrolls through the files, jaw tense. Peter paces while she reviews the tablet, head down and arms crossed. The stuff Gen gave him is a lot.

 

“You know,” she says, finally, “this has her fingerprints all over them, too. She’s tied to almost everything – wiring the money, making deposits . . .”

 

Peter stops pacing, leans against the island. “She’s asking for immunity. If we cancel the hit on her, make sure the feds don’t actually get to her . . . she’ll get us the ledger.”

 

“Peter,” she sighs, putting the tablet on the island. She rubs her temples. “You know that isn’t up to us.”

 

“Boss loves you,” Peter says. “You could convince him – ” Covey snorts, derisive. “What?”

 

“Boss doesn’t love me,” she says, almost bitterly. “If he did, he’d have let me – ” She stops at his questioning expression, then amends, quickly, “All I’m saying is that there’s no guarantee that we can get her any of that. A hit’s a hit. You should know that as well as I do.”

 

“Which is why I’m asking for your help,” he says. “Look, you said it yourself. You felt weird doing this because you were her best friend.” Lara Jean glances away. “How much do you know about her dad?”

 

Covey pauses. “A little,” she admits. “I know he was a gross asshole. He’d cheat on her mom, all the time. With girls as young as Gen was.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste.

 

“Yeah. Yeah. But . . .” He sighs, then says, finally, “Did she ever tell you that he tried – well – he tried to – with her – ”

 

Lara Jean stares, stricken. He doesn’t have to say it, thank god. “No,” she says. “No, never. I never knew – she never, ever said – ” She stops, then says, more measured, “That’s horrible. I can’t imagine . . .”

 

“Yeah,” he says, softly. Then his voice hardens, remembering what she told him at the diner. ”She said Ted was nice at first and then he started to beat her.” Covey flinches at that. “It got to the point when he’d ask her to do something – tell her – she just did it. I just think she – she got in over her head, and she just needs help.”

 

They stand there quietly, until she finally mumbles, “Look, I understand. If I found out the person I was in love with – ”

 

_Huh? What the – ?_ He scoffs.

 

“What?”

 

“Why do you think I’m still in love with her?”

 

“Because you don’t do stuff like this if you don’t love someone,” Lara Jean points out, not unkindly.

 

Peter makes a face, frustrated. It’s like running in circles with this one. “Oh, come on. I said it before – we had history. I just want to make sure she’s okay. I bailed on her and I always felt badly about it, that’s it.”

 

She looks at him, appraising – _that_ look. He hates that look. Like she sees right through him, past the pretensions and the bravado and right down to the worst parts of him. “You really don’t like being vulnerable, do you?”

 

He narrows his gaze at her. “I mean, do you? You’re the one who flipped out on me.”

 

Her mouth drops open at him. Chastened, Peter’s about to apologize for bringing up her past again, but she mumbles, “I guess you’re right.”

 

He doesn’t really have a retort, smart or apologetic or otherwise, so he elects to say nothing.

 

She looks at him, for a very long time. Then she says, softly, “Okay. I’ll help you. But – but Peter, Lucas still isn’t finished decoding everything we took from Ted’s laptop and the Luminescent op. I say, we still work both angles. Investigate both Ted, and Gen. Let the chips fall where they may.”

 

“Okay. Deal.” He grabs her hand, squeezes it. “Thank you.”

 

“I sincerely hope you’re right about her,” she says, simply. “My family – they wouldn’t be able to . . . not after my – ”

 

“Hey hey hey. Not happening.” He brings her hand up – squeezes it again, this time, to his chest. “I promise.”

 

She gives him a thin smile – her gaze flicks down, to their entwined hands, and her brows turn inward together, and then he’s suddenly aware of how close they’re standing together.

 

But he also doesn’t move, almost wondering, at her. That’s been happening a lot, lately . . .

 

Lara Jean seems to come out of it first, and starts to take a few, slow steps back. She lets go, but he doesn’t, not right away – just lightly holds on to her first three fingers until she inevitably slips out of reach, the absence almost searing.

 

Covey clears her throat, her face red, and turns back to the island. “You talk to Gen, see if she can get us the ledger,” she says, grabbing her phone. “And _you_ can start that conversation with Boss. I am not touching that until necessary.”

 

He clears his throat too, shakes his head. “Fair enough.” He watches her unlock her phone. “What are you doing?”

 

“Checking up on my family,” she says, matter-of-fact.

 

He almost says not to – but he thinks she’d probably rip his head off right now, and maybe she’d be justified. So instead, he brings the take-out to the couch and grabs a bottle of beer and a glass of wine for her, clears away the papers on the cushions. He hears her on the phone now, making calls. “Daddy? Yes, I’m okay. Just wanted to say hi. Sorry I haven’t called in a while. Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Well, Kitty’s a drama queen, I’m fine. Okay, I’m on my way out, just wanted to make sure you’re doing well. Good night, love you too.” . . . “I’m sorry to wake you, Gogo, I know it’s _so late_ over there . . . no, I just – had a feeling. Okay. Give my love to Ravi and the girls.” . . . “Hey, Kitty. Yeah, just checking up on you. Oh, you need more money? Okay. Just put it on the card. Yeah, I’ll be back soon. Good night.”

 

It makes him feel even more guilty, not just for her, but for his mom and Owen. He’s absolutely positive that even if Gen were guilty, she wouldn’t go after them – because, if anything, she never really seemed to care or notice much about them, before. Still, now that the hairs on the back of his neck have been raised, he starts typing in a quick hey to both of them. Mom responds before Covey’s even finished talking to her father. Owen just texts a thumbs up, which makes him scoff. That kid’s never been very talkative. He debates a half-second over whether he should check in on Everett and Clayton, then decides against it. It would be too out of the blue for them, too weird. Besides, Trevor’s got a team on them anyway.

 

Eventually, Lara Jean finally sits down on the opposite end of the couch. “They’re good. Your mom and brothers?”

 

Peter nods. Covey silently picks at her chicken Caesar salad and sips at her wine. He turns on the tv and scrolls through the options, but notes that she doesn’t even comment when he jokingly tries to select _Predator_ first to lighten the mood.

 

“Hey,” he says, nudging her leg with his socked foot. “We good?”

 

“Yeah. ‘Course.”

 

“So what’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing’s wrong.”

 

Which means something. He’s gotten to know her well enough to know that. “Even if she was guilty, I really don’t think she’d try anything with our families,” he says, seriously. “And Trevor’s great at his job.”

 

“It’s not that,” she says. “I guess – well . . . why didn’t you tell me right away? Before?”

 

He looks down at his food. “I dunno . . . Told myself it was safer at first – you know, for the first meeting, at least. My cover was blown, didn’t mean yours necessarily was. I could try and see what was really going on.”

 

“And after?”

 

He shrugs, pushes around the ketchup in his Styrofoam box with a french fry. Doesn’t really want to say it – that the idea of her, being disappointed in him, bothered him more than he likes to admit.

 

(Because she can see right through him – to the bad parts, the parts he hates about himself – and still like him, still get him. And not care. But this? Seeing his bad habits, how he so easily falls back into them . . . well, could she forgive that? He hadn’t been so sure.)

 

So he says it in a way that doesn’t sound as bad, at least to him. “Thought you’d be judgey.”

 

She smirks, and he has to almost laugh that she’s choosing to at least have a sense of humor about it. “Well, we’re partners. We’re supposed to tell each other this kind of stuff.”

 

He takes a big gulp of his beer, lifts his brows over the bottle. “Like you tell me?” Because that – that bugs him, more than he cares to admit. Because sometimes he feels so . . . _exposed_ to her – he can tell her about how it was like growing up at his mom’s store, and then she can smile so sweetly and prettily at him that it can honestly feel like someone’s punched him in the gut – and all the while it’s like he’s constantly trying to peel back the layers with her, and coming up against walls.

 

She freezes, but then sets down her salad on the floor. She takes a deep drink of wine before she sets the glass down next to the carton – flips her hair over her shoulders with both hands, then crosses them in her lap as she faces him. “Okay,” she says, evenly. “I’ll bite. How much did you manage to read from my file?”

 

“Not much,” he says, setting down his food. He turns to face her, rests his arm on the top of the couch. “I deleted it after you . . .” He leaves that hanging. She looks almost touched. “Anyway, a lot of it was redacted. All I saw are names, mission dates, date of births . . .”

 

She fiddles with the wedding ring on her finger, clears her throat. Her voice comes out low, quiet. “Did it say dates of deaths?”

 

-tbc-


	12. Chapter 12

Peter sits up straighter, shakes his head. “No. No, it uh, didn’t.” Although now he wants to kick himself. It should’ve been obvious.

 

Covey rubs the back of her neck. It’s too quiet in the living room, and Peter almost turns on the tv to something – commercials, the news, whatever – but then she starts, her voice just barely above a whisper, “Have you ever – I mean - ?”

 

“Have a partner die on a mission?” Peter supplies. “Um, no. Over the past few years, a few team members, but not – not an actual partner.”

 

Lara Jean nods slowly, picks up her glass and takes a deep drink. She stares at the remaining red liquid while she talks, haltingly. “Josh Sanderson was my . . . he and I grew up together. He dated my older sister Margot for a while. He was basically one of my best friends.” She smiles, humorless. “I guess you could say I had a little bit of a crush on him.” Peter smirks back, but says nothing, waiting for her to continue. “When I started digging around for what really happened to Mom, he helped me. He was really good with computers. We found out about the Company, together. And the Company recruited us, together. So we went through training together and were part of the same class and ...” She blinks a few times, then seems to gather herself and meets his gaze. “Our second mission, we were both so new at this and he - um – well, _we_ both made some rookie mistakes and he . . .”

 

“Got it,” Peter says, bleakly. He doesn’t need to know the actual details. “That’s not your fault.”

 

“Maybe, maybe not. I got him in. He screwed up, I couldn’t get to him in time . . . ” she rambles, sounding like she’s gone through this in her head more than a number of times. She nearly finishes her wine in one gulp, sets it down with a light clink on the floor. “But Kenny? He was my fault.” She shakes her head as she hugs her legs to her chest, still facing him. “He just had to play the hero and save that one last civilian ...” She rests her chin on her knees, gaze on the sliver of couch left between them. “He was a good guy, he didn’t deserve what happened to him. I was supposed to cover him with suppressing fire. But I missed the sniper and - ”

 

The Luminescent op. Why she was so determined not to be the back-up shooter . . .

 

Peter nods slowly, thumbing his lower lip.

 

“So, as you can see, I don’t exactly have the best track records with partners,” Lara Jean says, wryly.

 

“Well, ‘til you met me,” he brags, but keeps his tone light, to tell her he’s joking.

 

She rolls her eyes, but she smiles back. She crosses her arms, rests both of them on the back of the couch and pillows her head on top, mirroring his posture. They’ve somehow inched even closer on the couch. The silence ticks by, and he’s well aware of the final name on the file, wondering if he should ask.

 

But then finally she murmurs, “My target was this drug kingpin in Boston. The Company thought he was using grad students as runners. So … my cover was I would be a grad student. It was a long-term op, and I, um . . . met John there. We fell in love. He proposed.” She pauses, and her eyelids flutter closed. “But then I completed the op. The Company found out about us and gave me a formal warning. They tacked on an additional two million to my training debt. And at that point, I still hadn’t found the guy who killed my mother. I had to walk away.” She swallows, her eyes still closed. He can see tears well from beneath her lashes and he, suddenly pained, reaches for her cheek – but then she quickly dashes them away with her knuckles, and he retracts his hand as if burnt, before she can see.

 

Instead, he asks, gently, “What did you tell him?”

 

She looks ashamed. “That I was scared, that I didn’t think I was ready. That I didn’t want to be married to him. He – the look on his face . . .” She takes a shaky breath. “I found out he’s engaged again. I – I really do hope he’s happy.”

 

The quietness descends again. He watches her pick at a stray thread on her sleeve, twist the wedding ring on her finger. He’s wondering what to say to her – “Sorry” sounds ridiculous, terrible in its simplicity, but he _is_ sorry.

 

He’s never thought about possibilities beyond this life, before. Mostly because this life was the possibility that offered him an escape in the first place. From the ordinariness, the mundaneness . . . from stuff he never really wanted to deal with.

 

And before he knows it, he’s chugged down the rest of his beer, and as he wipes the corner of his mouth, he’s muttering, “When my dad left, I started spending more time at my mom’s store. It _was_ a pretty cool way to grow up, but, you know, when it happened . . . Mom needed the help, and she was just . . .” He shrugs, unable to find the words to describe it. “I’d sometimes catch her crying in the store room. She’d deny it, of course. And one day, I walked in and she was lying on the floor . . .” Lara Jean straightens, concerned. “She’s fine, now,” he says, in a rush. “She got therapy. My aunt came up for a while. It was rough, but it’s all good now. Mostly thanks to this gig. I get to help Mom and Owen out – a lot more than I would have if I was stuck doing god knows what a former college lacrosse jock would be doing.”

 

“I’m glad,” she whispers.

 

He smiles back, wan, tired. “I’d hate him _so much_ for doing that to her, to Owen. But every time I was at that store, that freaking bell on the door would go off, I’d look up and think – ”

 

“He’s come back,” she murmurs. “I’d do that, too . . . I’d be baking at home and I’d need flour or something and I’d think she’d walk right in the door with the groceries.”

 

He nods. “And then, at the same time, I’d get so mad I was glad he’d gone. Stupid, right? To be so tied up in knots thinking about this shit, after all this time.”

 

She shrugs. “I dunno. You can be mad at someone and still miss them. Doesn’t sound so stupid to me.”

 

Something hot loosens in his chest, something he hadn’t even been aware of. And then, looking at her, looking up at him with kindness in her gaze, he starts to feel bad. How’d they get to talking about him? “Yeah . . . I mean . . . it’s not like what happened to your mom – and – you know, everything else . . .”

 

“No, I get it,” she says, softly. “It’s cool.”

 

“Sorry, anyway,” he says, just as softly, back.

 

She snickers. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

For some reason, her smile deepens at that. But then her brows dip, in sudden discernment, and she peers up at him through her lashes. “What happened to the jerk?” she murmurs.

 

“Huh?”

 

“I mean . . .” She pauses, then shrugs. “That day you helped my sister out. You seemed . . . really . . . nice. A nice boy. Handsome.”

 

He grins, slow, and flattered. “Oh, _really_?”

 

“Mmm-hmm.” Her affirmation is quiet, dream-like. “But you’re also this – this _jerk_ here, I mean, here, with the Company, and I guess . . . I guess I thought this entire time, which one is the real you?” She looks at him, so keenly, with those eyes of hers, that he almost looks away – he’s about to, in fact, but then she reaches out and taps two fingers, light, against his chin. “But I think I know now. It’s the nice one. You just don’t like showing it very often.”

 

She starts to withdraw her hand, but he grabs hold – keeps his grip light, loose, lest he frighten this little bird away. She doesn’t move, just blinks a few times, keeps her head on her arm on the couch, and sighs, sleepy.

 

“You were kinda right about me and Gen,” he admits, eventually.

 

“Well, _duh,_ ” she says, still gazing into the middle distance.

 

He smirks, huffs out a rueful laugh. “I said kinda. Not 100%.”

 

“So what makes it ‘kinda?’”

 

“I think I . . .” He stumbles, searches for the right words. “I knew I never let her in as much as – as I could have. And like I said, I felt bad for bailing, knowing what she was going through. So, I think . . . I was in love with the idea of her. The what if.”

 

She glances up at him. “I can get that.”

 

He nods. “And . . . it’s kinda too easy to fall back into bad habits.”

 

“Mmm.” She nods, slowly – then pokes him in the chest with the pointer finger of her free hand with each word. “You – “ Poke. “ – like a damsel – “ Two pokes. “ – In – distress. Hero complex.” Big poke, right in the sternum. “You pro’lly rescued, like, a hundred pretty girls. And banged them all.”

 

He laughs in astonishment, not bothering to correct her. She’s drunk. On one glass of wine, for crying out loud. “And you’re ridiculous,” he says, tapping her on the forehead.

 

She blows an exasperated raspberry at him, which makes him chuckle, and she leans against the couch again, weary.

 

“Buuut, I think we got something in common,” he says, after a while, drowsy himself.

 

“And what’s that?” she murmurs.

 

He leans in, conspiratorial – whispers, in her ear, “We both like to feel guilty about shit we have no control over. It’s a thing, I heard.”

 

She opens one eye, says nothing. Then seems to sigh and snuggles closer into her arm, against the couch cushions.

 

After a moment, he shifts, so he’s facing the television, and puts on _Predator._ He reasons, half-asleep himself, that he’ll watch the first half hour, then wake her. He just needs a minute or two to summon the energy.

 

Sometime later, as Arnold is leading the soldiers through the jungle (maybe? hard to tell in the darkness), he blinks, as Covey’s head bobs down, nestling onto his shoulder. A faint jolt of surprise goes through him – faint, because he’s too tired to react, and he’d been dozing, and if he’d been more cognizant perhaps he would’ve realized it wasn’t so surprising at all. And so he only manages to think, _Oh, I’m screwed,_ before he takes a deep breath, and falls asleep again – cocooned in a sweet warmth that smells faintly of cupcakes and coconuts.

 

*

 

Lara Jean wakes up first, squinting in the darkness. To her embarrassment, she realizes she’s drooled on Peter’s chest – and then, confused, she wonders _how_ she ended up on Peter’s chest, lying on top of him on the couch. His head is pillowed by his free arm, face turned away. She can feel his other arm around her back, holding her to him.

 

 _He looks so handsome_ , she thinks, and then squashes that thought away, pushes it back desperately. The Company’s rules are clear, and she can’t be caught breaking them. She can’t be saddled with another debt, or god knows what other kinds of punishment they could have in store for her. She’s heard the rumors. But more important, she can’t risk her heart again, have it cut out of her so viciously . . . not after her mother, not after John . . . Not when she’s so close . . .

 

So she’ll just have to deal with this little one-sided crush. Cut it out like an adult, a professional. A person with a purpose.

 

She clears her throat. “Peter. Peter.” She reaches up, touches his chin. Turns his face gently towards her, and sits up slightly, so she’s hovering over him. “Peter.” He finally blinks up at her, dazed. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

 

A slow sort of smile starts to bloom across his face as he wakes up, and that traitorous little thought tickles her again, makes her smile back. “I don’t want to,” he play-whines, like he’s five and his mother told him it’s time for school.

 

She snickers, and, unable to help herself, traces the line of his nose with her finger – bops him gently on the tip. “Well, we gotta. I have a horrible crick in my neck.”

 

“Oh, sorry.” Peter pushes off the couch, and she sits up, rubbing the back of her neck. They start quietly cleaning up the food and alcohol, and when they’re finally done – Peter steals another tiramisu cupcake in the middle of her packing it away in Tupperware – they head up to their bedrooms.

 

He catches her rubbing her sore neck at her bedroom door, puts his fingers at her nape and says, quietly, “Here.” Lara Jean stops, still facing her closed door – he moves her thick braid away, gently, over the side of her left shoulder, the pads of his fingers just whispering through the stray strands.

 

Then he presses his fingers gently into her flesh, rubbing soothing circles. Lara Jean feels her body loosen, and she closes her eyes . . . breathes in. He’s standing very close. She can feel the heat of him, down the entirety of back – a puff of warm breath in her hair, by her throat . . .

 

Her handles fumble blindly for the doorknob. “T-thanks,” she murmurs, more to the door than to him. Safely in the confines of the master bedroom, she gathers herself up and looks at him, square in the eye. “Good night.”

 

Peter stares back at her, blinks. There’s a long beat and she feels her mouth drop slightly, her heart bottoming out in her stomach. Like she could snap her fingers, and then she’d be lost, uprooted, upended.

 

And they’d both be done.

 

His brows knit together, and she almost takes another step back. But then he says, calmly, “Good night, Lara Jean.”

 

And he walks away.

 

Lara Jean closes the door. She leans her forehead against the cool wood, shaking.

 

_Shit._

 

-tbc-


	13. Chapter 13

Boss is, predictably, irate. It takes about a minute of him yelling at Peter over the video link for Peter to cave and call in Covey for back up. She’s not what he’d call pleased, but does as promised.

 

“I think,” she says, measured, after Boss is done ranting at her, “that the information the target provided warrants consideration of Agent Kavinsky’s suggested terms.”

 

“You two are a headache and a half,” Boss snits from his chair. He hits a button on his phone. “Velma! Link James up to the call.”

 

“Sure, Boss.”

 

In the few moments that it takes for Lucas to sign in, Peter exchanges a glance with Lara Jean. She shrugs, chews on her thumbnail. He sucks in his lips and crosses his arms, jiggles his leg.

 

“You realize, that if we shift targets, the Company’s compensation – and _your_ compensation _–_ may be affected?” Boss asks, drumming his fingers on his desk. He says it more to Lara Jean than to Peter, he notices.

 

In the corner of his eye, he can see Lara Jean press her fist into her mouth.

 

“I’m aware,” she says.

 

Peter nods. It doesn’t really matter to him. As long as he gets his money from the club hit, and from this one, he’s fine. He worked his way out of his training debt years ago. Everything else is gravy – put away for Mom and Owen, just in case they need it, and a travel fund for himself whenever he gets the itch during his downtime.

 

“A lot of red tape . . . could slow things up,” Boss adds, wryly.

 

Peter narrows his eyes at him. “Well, I thought part of this job was to make sure we get the right person,” he says, clipped. “I can’t imagine the amount of red tape if we eliminate the incorrect target.”

 

Boss holds up his hands, suddenly back to his smooth, calm demeanor. “As always, Agent Kavinsky, you bring up a very good point. Myself? I’m just pointing out some facts we should all consider.”

 

He sees Lara Jean huff into her fist but she doesn’t say anything.

 

A little box appears in the right bottom corner of the tablet screen. “Mr. James,” Boss says. “So good of you to join us. Tell me, how goes de-crypting Mr. Blake’s laptop?”

 

“Slowly, sir,” Lucas says, formally. “My team’s scattered with other missions, and as you know, the data’s pretty encrypted. But, we’ve got the Rome op wrapping up. I should have it for all of you in another two days.”

 

“What can you tell us now?” Boss drums his fingers on the table again, staccato.

 

“I mean, preliminarily? And I do mean preliminarily? Kinda looks like we should shift . . . priorities.”

 

Peter lets out a sigh of relief. Underneath the island, he feels Lara Jean squeeze his knee. He pats her hand – rubs it, and on instinct, grabs hold.

 

“We are completely fine with investigating both avenues,” Lara Jean says. “But, we would like authorization to eliminate the alternate target should we obtain the ledger and deem it necessary.”

 

Boss steeples his fingers, looks up to the ceiling as if in thought. “Fine,” he says. “Verify the authenticity of the ledger and I’ll take care of the behind the scenes shit. Mrs. Blake will get full immunity if this pans out.” But then he points at them. “Make it clean, though. I only brought you in, Kavinsky, to do the dirty work if things got hairy for Covey here. I don’t want anymore drama than necessary.”

 

Peter gives him a limp salute. “Sir.”

 

Boss signs off. Lucas stays on the line. “I should have it for you soon,” he says, to Lara Jean. She nods, wan, and blows him a kiss. “Later, all.” He signs off.

 

Lara Jean pulls away and stands up. Peter doesn’t say anything, just watches her putter about the kitchen, cleaning up the remnants of their breakfast. He chews on the inside of his cheek. He should say something – anything. The last two days have just been fucking awkward as hell. Sure, she’ll still make breakfast in the mornings – he’ll still come back from “work” with take-out, and she’ll still have some delicious baked goods waiting for dessert, but . . . the only way to describe their behavior around each other is that they’re scrupulously, incredibly polite.

 

(It doesn’t help that each morning since that night, he wakes up from having a very graphic dream of hoisting her onto the very island he’s sitting at, and slipping his first two fingers knuckle-deep into her while she shudders out her pleasure . . . so, yeah, awkward.)

 

It’s kind of embarrassing, in a school-boy crush sort of way. He’s been attracted to another field agent before – Jamila was the last one – but he’s always toed the line, never crossed it, too aware of the rules. There’s been a casual thing here and there with a civilian. But nothing that would warrant the Company raining hellfire down on his head for violating fraternization protocol.

 

Nothing serious.

 

“Um, thanks for making breakfast,” she says, suddenly, snapping him out of his thoughts. She’s facing the sink, back towards him, as she starts on the dishes.

 

He wants to point out that they have a dishwasher, and she doesn’t need to do that, but just coughs and mumbles, “Yeah, no problem. Uh, figured it should be my turn for a change.”

 

She nods vaguely. “Mmm-hmm.” She nods over to the microwave, to the digital clock. “You’re gonna be late for work.”

 

“Ah – yeah – ” He stands up, grabs the car keys. “Um – Darrell’s been bugging me about his Fourth of July party tomorrow. He says you need to make the flag cupcakes? Whatever those are.”

 

She pauses, then continues to scrub the egg pan. “Oh. Um – I thought – well, maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea – you know, to go.”

 

Peter pulls out his phone, pretends to check his Luminescent e-mail. “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?” he asks, casually. “We’re cool. Right?”

 

She whirls around, sponge still in hand. Bubbles go flying. “Peachy!” she chirps, enthusiastic. Her cheeks are bright pink. “They’re red, white, and blue cupcakes. I make a bunch of them and they’re supposed to line up.”

 

“ . . . What?”

 

“The flag cupcakes. I was telling you what – ” She stops, restarts. “Never mind. Tell him I’ll bring the flag cupcakes.”

 

“Oh. Oh yeah. Great.” He slides his phone into his bag’s outer pocket, shrugs into his suit jacket, and loops on his tie. He hates the thing – hates wearing this thing everyday to “work” – but it gives him something to fiddle with. “If I can catch Gen at work today, I’ll let her know Boss’s decision.”

 

“Okay. Good. Um – your tie – ” She puts the sponge back in the sink, wipes her hands on a dishcloth, and grabs the ends of his tie. “My dad sometimes wore bowties to medical conferences,” she murmurs, working the maroon silk through like an expert. “He’d look pretty dapper. But I dunno, I always liked the traditional . . .” Her voice trails off as she looks up at him.

 

She smells too nice – exactly like how she smelled that night, cupcakes and coconuts and something else. Something distinctly Lara Jean.

 

Well aware she’d caught him staring at her slightly parted mouth, Peter takes a few steps back, gives her a stiff smile. “Thanks,” he says, the tie still hanging loose around his neck. “Gotta get going.”

 

She swallows, nods. He doesn’t bother checking if she turns away as he walks briskly out of the kitchen.

 

*

 

According to Darrell, he and Pammy have the best vantage point of the town’s fireworks, which do not disappoint. Lara Jean watches with Talia on some outdoor floor cushions, oooing and aaahing with the little girl. Peter’s too busy watching Covey laugh and giggle to even notice Gen coming up to him by the snacks table.

 

“Can we talk?” she asks, lowly.

 

“Sure.” He sets down his beer and leads her to the side of the house, where there are less people. “We talked to my boss. He says it’s a go. If you get us the ledger.”

 

“I _told_ you, I don’t know where it is!” she hisses.

 

“You said last time it might be in the cabin – ”

 

“Might! I’m only guessing.” She presses her fingers to her eyes, frustrated. “I just thought all the stuff I got you before was enough. I want this to be over.”

 

“Hey hey hey. It will be, I swear.” He reaches out, rubs her shoulder. “Just keep an eye out.”

 

“You don’t know what he’s like,” she says, despondent. “How controlling he can be.”

 

He squeezes her shoulder. “Just hang on,” he says, comfortingly. “It’s almost over.”

 

She grabs his hand with both of her own, peers up at him. “Thank you, Peter,” she whispers. “When – when this _is_ all over . . .” She lets the words hang, her eyes beseeching.

 

He pauses, surprised. The thought hadn’t occurred to him, in all honesty. At least, with respect to Gen. Not only because the rules about Company members fraternizing with civilians are clear – but because whatever half-formed thoughts he may have had about Gen, about their past, are no longer knocking about in his head, if they were even really there to begin with.

 

Someone else is there, now.

 

And because he thinks he owes it to her to be kind, to be empathetic – to give her an explanation, let her down easy – he just says, simply, “Gen, it’s a long story, but it – we – it can’t happen.”

 

Her grip slackens. “But – I thought – when we were together . . .”

 

“That was a long time ago,” he says, gently. “A different life.” She lets go, crosses her arms – looks off, jaw working. “I’m sorry if I made you think . . . but I can’t.”

 

“Can’t or won’t?” she snaps, glaring up at him with the same sort of fury he recognizes from college. In a way, it’s almost comforting to see the old Gen back, instead of the beaten-down shell he’s seen the past few weeks.

 

“Both,” he says, truthfully. And then he adds, sincerely, “You need time away from that bastard. And I’m not in a place to do anything about anything with anyone.” She bows her head, shaking it fiercely. He sighs, surmising what happened – she’d reached out for a safety line, in him, like she used to do, and it gave her ideas. It gave her hope. “Gen,” he tries again, and tries to hug her, but she pulls away.

 

“I’ll try to find out about the ledger,” she grumbles, wiping at the corner of her eyes. “Good night.” He watches her disappear through the crowd, towards the back gate.

He sighs, scrubs the back of his head, tired. With nothing left to do, he goes and grabs another beer from the tub of ice – takes a deep two gulps and surveys the party.

 

What _is_ going to happen when this op ends? Normally, he’d go back home. Take a little R&R. Then either request a new op, or get one handed to him. He’d never really questioned the process, thought too long ahead. Now . . .?

 

He finishes off his beer, tosses it in the overflowing recycling bin. The fireworks are still going, gearing up for the big finale. He flops down on the cushion next to Covey, who’s got Talia’s head in her lap. He reaches over to tickle the little girl underneath her armpits.

 

“Ahhh!” she squeals, lunging towards him. “Help me, LJ!”

 

Lara Jean shrieks playfully, and he pretends to get pinned by her while Talia squiggles her fingers into his belly. “Ahhh! Stop! I’m dying!” he jokes.

 

“Truce truce truce,” Lara Jean says, picking Talia up and plonking her on her lap. “Come on, I don’t want to miss the finale.”

 

“Hey, guys,” Greg says, his phone out. “Say cheese!”

 

“Oh – um – ” They exchange glances. Technically, they’re not supposed to have their pictures taken if they can avoid it – especially, as Peter strongly suspects, Greg’s going to post them on social media. But seeing no other avenue, he gamely slings his arm around Covey’s shoulders. She leans her head against his cheek and the three of them give big toothy grins.

 

“Daddy, can I have another ice cream?” Talia asks, popping off Lara Jean’s lap.

 

“Just don’t tell Mommy,” Greg stage-whispers, leading her away. “I’ll text you the photo, Kavinsky.”

 

“Thanks, man,” Peter calls. He glances down at Covey, still underneath his arm, now playing absently with his fingers as she looks up at the sky.

 

A white firecracker explodes, crackling – the smoke burns sharply. She winces, laughing, and then catches him looking. “What?” she asks, shifting her grip to thread her fingers through his.

 

Every logical part of his brain tells him that they don’t need to be doing this. They didn’t need to go to Darrell’s party – to hang out with the Ramirez family and play with their little girl. That soon, they’ll be out of this suburb with its white picket fences, off somewhere else – gone, forever, like ghosts.

 

Apart.

 

Because he’d have to move out of the apartment, now, wouldn’t he? They’d have to avoid each other. The Company was probably fine with them coincidentally living in the same complex because they wouldn’t have any reason to know each other, in their lives with the Company or as pretend-civilians. But if the Company ever got wind . . . even _suspected_. . . Covey had told him about what happened with John, but he’s heard rumors that they’ve done worse to past agents. Much worse.

 

“What are you doing?” he asks, softly. “I mean – after – ?”

 

“The party?” she asks, not understanding.

 

He shakes his head at her. “I meant – ”

 

A series of explosions interrupt him. The finale. They both look up, just in time to see the sky light up in reds, blues, and whites, the colors raining down with sizzles and snaps. Around them, the partygoers cheer. Lara Jean lets out a whoop, clapping – he laughs at her gleeful expression, the way her complexion seems to change colors with the fireworks, cast in blue in one moment and golden in the other.

 

She turns back to him. “What were you saying?”

 

He shakes his head. The moment’s gone. And it’s ironic, since he routinely faces terrorists and cartel members and corrupt despots, but he hasn’t the courage. “Nothing, it was nothing.”

 

The smile on her face fades suddenly – he gazes back at her, and then she reaches out with her free hand . . . He closes his eyes – feels her fingertips, light and shaky, on his eyelashes – his temple – on the curve of his jaw.

 

The fireworks sputter out, applause rings around them. Lara Jean retracts her hand so quickly, it was like she was never even there. The party continues, people chattering happily, oblivious. Peter opens his eyes. She just stares at him, eyes round and lower lip between her teeth. She wrings her hands in her lap.

 

And like an idiot, he can only stare back.

 

Lara Jean stands up, crosses her arms. “I think I’m just gonna go home – t-to the house,” she amends, quickly.

 

He stands too, swallows past the sudden dryness in his throat. “I’ll walk you back.”

 

*

 

They don’t say anything during the walk. The sounds of the party drifts further and further away behind them, with only the soft tread of Peter’s shoes and her flip-flops slapping gently against the sidewalk.

 

He doesn’t hold her hand, or put his palm on the small of her back, like he’s been doing since they started this whole charade. She wouldn’t say she misses the sensation of feeling each finger splayed against the back of her cotton dress, or the gentle tug of his hand in hers. But its absence is like a yawning hole that seems to widen the divide between them right now. It makes her skin itch, it makes her want to crawl out of it, tear it off herself.

 

Halfway up the drive, Lara Jean hears a familiar voice call to both of them. They turn, and see Genevieve walking up, arms crossed.

 

“It’s in the cabin,” she whispers. “He says he keeps the place heavily guarded because of all the art we have there. But honestly it’s one of the drop points, too.”

 

Lara Jean exchanges glances with Peter, waiting.

 

“I can get both of you in, past security,” Gen says. “I’ll say I’ve invited both of you for brunch. You’re looking to buy a vacation home in the area. You’re old friends. He likes to check up on my old friends,” she adds, under her breath, bitterly. Then she looks up. “If the ledger is good, can you two do it then? Kill him?”

 

“I – ” Lara Jean shifts, uncomfortable at how matter-of-fact Gen sounds. But then again, Ted had been abusing her for years. Lara Jean’s not so sure if she wouldn’t react the same way.

 

It’s Peter who answers. “Yes.”

 

“Good,” Gen says. She rubs her upper arms, seemingly for warmth, even though it’s a balmy summer night. “Tomorrow morning. I’ll text you the the directions. It doesn’t show up on GPS. Have a good night.” She turns away, arms still crossed and shoulders hunched, and walks down the sidewalk towards her house.

 

Lara Jean just gives Peter a final glance. He’s staring at the ground, hands in his pockets. She wants to reach for him, smooth his hair off of the lines of worry on his forehead. Because now she understands – he’s not as easy or as carefree as he makes himself out to be.

 

But that’s not her job. It can’t be.

 

So Lara Jean just whispers, “Good night,” and she unlocks the front door. She heads to the kitchen and starts pulling out bowls and ingredients.

 

She needs to get ready for tomorrow.

 

-tbc-


	14. Chapter 14

Lara Jean takes her time getting ready. She dresses practically – jeans, a loose t-shirt – combat boots. She ties her hair into a loose bun on the top of her head.

 

Then she actually gets ready.

 

Her underarm holster, her Glock. A dagger in both her combat boots. And then finally, she picks up two thick vintage hairpins, glares at them in the bedroom light. She digs into her drawers and pulls out a box of her chemicals – mixes and matches until she comes up with the right combination. She soaks both pins in the solution for thirty seconds, then blows on them until dry. She slides both pins into her bun, then disposes of the unused chemicals down the toilet – burns the vials in the sink.

 

Then she picks up her bright pink bomber jacket, slides it on, and heads down the stairs.

 

The chocolate chip muffins are cooling on the island, each with a different color wrapper. Lara Jean eyes them speculatively before packing them up into a collapsible carrier. As she works, Peter comes down the stairs.

 

She turns as he slings on his jacket – catches a glimpse of his side-arm before it’s covered. She wonders where he’s hidden his other weapons, but doesn’t ask. He looks different – serious, his shoulders straight and jaw tight. She’s always used to seeing him happy, at ease, and this shift in personality . . . well, it’s to be expected, she supposes, but it’s disconcerting. She can’t remember him looking this way before the Luminescent op, but that was different, wasn’t it?

 

He nods at the container. “That it?”

 

“Yes.” She holds up the carrier. “Only the one with the white muffin wrapper is poisoned. He’ll probably think it’s just a migraine, and go to sleep and won’t wake up. The coroner will think it’s a random aneurysm.”

 

“Bastard deserves a lot worse,” Peter grumbles.

 

Lara Jean nods in grim agreement.

 

The drive to Mt. Hood is long and quiet. Lara Jean just watches the world go by, arms crossed over her chest. She’s antsy, keyed up – all normal, before a final op. But there’s something else that’s bothering her, something that’s nagging at her, a low hum of anxiety that sets her teeth on edge, to the roots.

 

She checks her phone. Nothing.

 

“Anything from Lucas?” Peter asks, voice low, eyes still on the road.

 

She shakes her head. “I wish we had his report before we went up there,” she admits.

 

Peter shrugs. “I get it. But if the ledger is good, it’s moot, anyway.”

 

“Yeah.” She frowns at the lines of reception on her cell phone. Down to two bars up here. She suppresses a sigh, thumps the back of her head on the headrest – looks at Peter in the corner of her eye. She wonders what he was going to say to her, at the party last night. If she’d been imagining things. And if he had said something – what would she even say back?

 

She checks her phone again. Still nothing.

 

It’s closer to lunch time than actual brunch by the time they get off the proper exit and hit the back roads. Gen had been right – even their Company-based GPS couldn’t locate the cabin, and Lara Jean and Peter find that they need to pay attention to the instructions she’d left and the road markers. Finally, they break through the woods and come coasting along the gravel road to a large wooden gate, run through with electrical wiring, and two guards on stand-by.

 

Lara Jean tries not to frown at the two men, as the first one heads up to Peter’s side of the car. There’s no sign of guns on them, but that doesn’t really mean anything.

 

The chill of the mountain air hits them as Peter lowers his window. “Hey,” Peter says, friendly. “We’re here to see Mr. and Mrs. Blake.”

 

“Names?” the guard asks, bright eyes darting from Peter to Lara Jean.

 

“Peter Kavinsky and Lara Jean Song-Covey.”

 

“IDs.”

 

They dutifully hand them over. The guard goes back to his compatriot. They pull out walkie-talkies. Peter mutters, “Awful tight security for a vacation home.”

 

“I can see another walking the east perimeter,” Lara Jean murmurs, pretending to check her make-up in the visor mirror.

 

“Same on the west,” Peter replies under his breath.

 

Lara Jean looks at Peter in the corner of her eye. Boss wanted this to be a clean kill. It’s the main reason she was brought in. But if it isn’t . . . she can handle herself, she’s been trained to do so, and god knows how many times she’s _had_ to, but she’s knows her limits. Four against two is not great odds, and those are the guards they can see.

 

The guard returns, hands them back their IDs. “Mr. and Mrs. Blake are waiting for you up at the house,” he says.

 

“Thanks,” Peter says. He rolls up the window. Just before it closes, Lara Jean catches the guard leering at her. So does Peter, who glares back at him through the glass before peeling away. “Asshole,” he mutters.

 

She studiously looks ahead, says nothing. Not the first time an asshole did that during a mission.

 

And hopefully, after today, it’ll be the last.

 

*

 

The Jeep crunches up the gravel road, then finally bursts through the forest, where the mansion – because that’s the only thing to call it, a log-cabin mansion – awaits them at the top of a tree-lined, winding path up the hill. Peter parks the Jeep at the end of the circular driveway, and gets out, surveying the immediate area with a clinical, practiced gaze. The four guards they saw patrolling the perimeter – how many are at the house? None that he can see, so far.

 

Covey shuts her door, holding the muffin container by the handle, and walks over to him. “Ready?” he asks.

 

“Yeah.” Her brow is in a deep V as she looks around, too. The mountain wind kicks up, more cold than chilly, and she pushes a few strands of hair that have escaped her bun out of her eyes. “Peter?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she admits, still scanning the grounds.

 

“I do too.” There’s a sense of unease in the air. But it’s useless to worry. They’ve got a job to do. “Everything’s gonna be okay. You’ll see.”

 

She sucks in her lips, nods vaguely. “Be careful?” she asks, almost plaintive, finally daring to look up at him, eyes bright with worry – and a deep pang of longing goes through him so suddenly he reaches out before he can stop himself and grasps her free hand – brings it up, and kisses her knuckles, light.

 

“You too.”

 

She gives him a smile, weary and thin-lipped, and he pulls at her hand, gentle. “Leggo.”

 

There’s another guard – a huge, burly guy with a shaved head – at the front door. He ushers them inside with a crisp, “They’re in the sitting room,” and a nod. Peter takes Covey’s hand as they walk into the massive grand foyer. “Cabin” was drastically downplaying the sheer grandeur of this place – cathedral ceilings, and buck and bear heads mounted to the walls, flanked by expensive artwork.

 

“Ah! There you are,” Ted exclaims, as they walk through the French doors and into the formal sitting room. He stands up, shakes Peter’s hand, and kisses Lara Jean on the cheek. “We’re so happy you could make it.”

 

“Yes,” Genevieve adds. “So glad.”

 

“I brought some goodies, thought it was the least we could do,” Lara Jean says, sweetly, holding up the container.

 

“Well, then, let’s dig right in,” Ted says, ushering them through another set of doors towards the dining room. “Did you enjoy the drive?”

 

“It was long, but absolutely beautiful,” Lara Jean says, as they start to dig into the spread laid out before them. “We’ve always wanted a house up here, haven’t we, Peter?”

 

“Mmm,” he says, surveying the dining room. There’s a door down the hall. Maybe leading to an office. “Although, I don’t think we’d be able to afford something as nice as this. Gen, I’m sorry to bother you, but can you let me know where the bathroom is?”

 

Genevieve calmly puts down her fork. “It’s a bit confusing. I’ll show you.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

At the door, she points down the hall. Meets his gaze with a hard look. Behind them, Ted and Lara Jean are making small talk. Peter gets the hint and leaves quickly.

 

The door is locked. He pulls out his lock pick kit and works the pins inside, jiggling them around until he hears the telltale click. As he puts his tools back into his inner jacket pocket, he happens to glance down – notices a small red light blinking from inside the jamb. Motion sensors. He pushes the door open and cautiously steps over the invisible beam.

 

It is an office – wall-to-wall built-in cabinets crammed with books, even more stuffed animal heads, and a heavy desk before a stone fireplace. As quickly and as quietly as he can, he starts opening up the desk drawers, the file cabinets. Nothing. But then he notices something glinting between two books in the built-in cabinets by the window. He runs over and pushes the books aside – a safe, with a digital key code.

 

“Bingo,” he mutters, into the tiny comm button pinned discretely to his collar.

 

“How much do you think is a reasonable price in the area?” Lara Jean asks Ted, her voice teeny over the link.

 

Ted answers her as Peter reaches into his inner jacket pocket and pulls out the decoder. He attaches it to the safe, turns it on. “Three minutes,” he says, replying to Covey’s covert question.

 

“Excellent,” she says, to Ted.

 

*

 

“Now, see, on this side of the hill, you can get the perfect view of the lake. . .”

 

Lara Jean forces a smile, even as Ted leans in closer to her to point out the view from the dining room bay windows. Behind them, at the table, Gen abruptly sets down her utensils with a small clatter. Ted doesn’t seem to notice, but Lara Jean darts a quick glance in Gen’s direction. She’s crossed one arm over herself, her free hand grasping a flute of mimosa in a vice, glaring into the middle distance.

 

 _She’s jealous._ Disturbed, Lara Jean turns back to the window and makes a general comment about the beauty of the area. She can’t understand why Gen would be jealous over her disgusting, abusive husband flirting with another woman.

 

“Got it,” Peter says, over the comm.

 

“I think my coffee is getting cold,” Lara Jean says, smoothly, going back to the table. She sits back down.

 

“Peter better hurry,” Ted jokes, sitting down across from Gen. “Nothing worse than a cold breakfast.”

 

“I’m sure he’s on his way,” Lara Jean says. Her phone vibrates within her pocket, but there’s no way for her to reach it without appearing rude. “So, you’ve had this house for how long now?”

 

“About five years,” Ted says, digging into his bacon and eggs. “Before Genevieve and I were married. Actually, I took her here for one of our first dates.”

 

*

 

 _Creep,_ Peter thinks, angrily, as he flips through the small leather-bound journal and listens to their conversation. It’s all hand-written, so some of the words are hard to make out. But it’s not Gen’s handwriting, that much he knows, and the information looks good – dates, meeting places for drop points, names . . .

 

He pulls out his phone, takes a photo of one page – runs the handwriting analysis program. After a second, the screen blinks green. A confirmed match for Ted’s handwriting. He slips his phone back into his pocket, and continues scanning the pages, reading. It should be enough.

 

His phone buzzes, but he ignores it. “I can make the call,” he mutters into his comm. He nods to himself, stands up, and closes the ledger with a snap. He stuffs it into his inner jacket pocket. “I’m making the call.”

 

*

 

“How sweet,” Lara Jean says, ostensibly to Ted’s version of how he and Gen met. In reality, it all sounds incredibly predatory – much older man who noticed the younger junior accountant and wouldn’t take no for an answer for a first date.

 

Her phone vibrates one more time, this time with a call. It’s loud enough that Ted raises his eyebrows at her. “Feel free, Lara Jean,” he says. Genevieve smiles stiffly at her from across the table, over the rim of her glass.

 

Her phone stops ringing, but Lara Jean gives him a wan smile. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “It’s probably my sister.”

 

“Family first,” Ted says, charmingly.

 

“Thank you,” Lara Jean says. She opens the muffin carrier, and plucks out the one wrapped in white – places it delicately onto his plate. “Please. Have one.” She offers another, non-poisoned one, to Gen, who declines with a stiff wave of her hand.

 

Lara Jean steps away from the table, walks to the far side of the room, and pulls out of her phone. She’s too late to answer, but instead multiple text messages pop up, all from Lucas.

 

_PK LJ Ted was definitely the main middleman for 98% of the transactions. But I found something buried. She’s the only one tied to the LA operations. Her cell phone, her bank accounts, her e-mails. I can’t find any trace of Ted. If anything, I think she hid it from him. Whatever you do, don’t -_

 

“Oh god,” Lara Jean whispers. She turns, just as Peter steps back into the dining room.

 

*

 

Peter’s phone vibrates again as he enters the dining room. Gen and Ted are still at the table, but Lara Jean is at the far side of the room, her back to him, on her phone. She turns around when he comes in, eyes wide.

 

“Ah, there you are,” Ted says, gesturing to his seat. “Get lost?”

 

“This place is so large it’s easy to,” Peter says. He notes the muffin on Ted’s plate. Good.

 

Gen says, to Peter, “Everything fine?”

 

Peter looks at her – at the question, in her eyes, that she's really asking. “Yes.”

 

Lara Jean, panicked, says, “Peter, wait, I just got – ”

 

“Good,” Gen says, satisfied. She pulls out a gun from under the table.

 

_Shit._

 

“No!” Covey shouts.

 

Peter dashes forward, and Ted begins to say, “What the hell are you – ”

 

But before any of them can stop her, Gen pulls the trigger and shoots her husband in the stomach.

 

-tbc-


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god guys, if anyone's still reading this, i'm sorry! my oldest got sick for a week, and at the same time, of course work exploded. i'd hoped to have this finished by this month and that didn't happen naturally. blah!

Ted flails backwards, tips his chair over, and collapses in a heap on the floor, coughing up blood.

 

“Fuck!” Peter exclaims, and grabs the gun from Gen – pushes her back. “This was supposed to be _clean_ Gen, goddammit, not – ”

 

Lara Jean stoops to check on Ted. Should she help? Regardless of Gen’s involvement, he _is_ guilty, but they were given strict instructions to make this a clean hit. Still undecided, she pushes her fingers into his wrist, checks his pulse. It’s a bad wound, right in the stomach. He’s blubbering blood, clutching at his abdomen uselessly. He won’t live unless they get him to a hospital soon.

 

She stands, pulls out her gun from her jacket, and aims it at Gen. “Whoa whoa whoa wait, Covey,” Peter says, stepping in front of Gen, hands out and placating. “I know Boss is not going to like this but – ”

 

“Check your messages,” she says, terse, gun still trained on Gen. “Lucas has more information for us.”

 

Gen raises one brow at her – otherwise, she’s expressionless. Lara Jean feels her jaw tense but doesn’t lower her gun, at a loss over Gen’s behavior. She waits for Peter to pull out his phone. Then comes the quiet, harsh, “Fuck . . .” He turns towards Gen, angry. “You played us.”

 

“You played yourselves,” Gen says, toneless.

 

And then the guards come into the room, surrounding them.

 

Peter uses Gen’s gun – aims for the biggest guard, the one who let them into the house, but he aims back with his own sidearm. Lara Jean feels someone behind her, but before she can check, she hears the _click_ and feels cool metal touch the nape of her neck.

 

“I’ll take that, darling,” someone says, from behind her.

 

Peter catches her gaze. She can see his jaw tick, realizing how screwed they are. But he still keeps his gun on the head guard, so Lara Jean doesn’t move.

 

 

 

From the floor, Ted coughs. “J-Jack,” he wheezes to the big guy. “You – you kill that fucking bitch . . .”

 

“Sorry, Teddy,” Gen says. She walks over, kicks his bloody hands away from his stomach, and digs her stiletto heel into the wound. Ted shrieks in pain. Lara Jean tries not to flinch, and still keeps her gun on Gen. “I gave them a pay raise. You’d be amazed how easily people switch allegiances with a little bit of money.”

 

“You – you’re – ” Ted manages to gasp, but then his head lolls back against the floor. His chest rises once . . . then doesn’t fall.

 

Silence rings all around the dining room. Then Gen marches up to Lara Jean, holds out her hand. “Give me your gun.”

 

“Not a chance,” Lara Jean says.

 

“ _You’re_ the one with a gun pointed at your neck,” Gen says, her voice syrupy-sweet. “I can always take it after Billy shoots you. In fact, Billy, why don’t you – ”

 

“Gen, do _not_ be dumb here,” Peter cuts in, tense. “Our Company knows we’re here. There are reinforcements coming. You kill us, you’re signing your own death certificate.”

 

Gen rolls her eyes. “Search them.”

 

Lara Jean feels the gun pointed against her neck press even harder into her flesh. “I won’t ask again,” the voice says. “Drop it. Hand it over. Slowly.”

 

She chews on the inside of her cheek, considering her very limited options. Peter glares over at her, resigned. The head guard advances, takes Gen’s gun from Peter – another guy comes over and starts patting him down. Seeing no other option, Lara Jean holds up her hands and lets the guard take her weapon from her. He starts searching her and finds her daggers easily. Across the room, the guards are basically pulling out every gun Peter has on him, unloading and pocketing the clips. The big one finds Peter’s comm bud on his jacket collar and crushes it easily under his heel. Lara Jean’s screeches in response and her guard yanks it off her collar as well.

 

“For what it’s worth, I was almost there,” Gen says, taking back her gun from Peter. “I really was gonna help you idiots out. But then I saw you, with her, and I figured there was no way the universe was gonna fuck me over yet again.”

 

“What even – ” Peter says, genuinely confused.

 

“Yesterday! The party!” she snaps, as if speaking to an annoying child. “Stop pretending that you’re just together for some cover! Give me some credit, Peter, _god_! You said you couldn’t be with me, but that’s a lie, wasn’t it?! I can’t believe you fell for her little miss sweet and innocent act. She was practically whoring herself up in front of this asshole.” She kicks Ted’s dead body for good measure.

 

Lara Jean wants to laugh at the irony of it all. That this whole op is turning to literal shit because of something that can never, ever happen – that their lives are on the line because of some kind of petty teenage grudge that she can’t even remember fully . . .

 

“Gen, I really don’t have any idea what I’ve ever done to you,” she says, shaking her head.

 

Gen scoffs, bitter.

 

“Gen,” Peter says, gently. “You and me – that was all . . . it was never gonna happen again.”

 

“You two don’t get to play high horse with me,” Gen spits. Her eyes grow glassy, brittle - and for the first time, Lara Jean sees real tears in them. Her heart drops into her stomach, the kind of cold dread when you realize you’ve made a terrible mistake. And then Gen says, “Both of you left me. _Both of you!_ ” Her voice shrieks high, anguished _–_ the sound of it chills Lara Jean, icing her veins. The confusion and defiance in Peter’s eyes dies abruptly and he seems to almost recoil. _“_ You two have no idea what it was like. He’d hit me. Just like Dad. And they - they - did - ” She stops, swallows. “And when I needed you the most, you were gone, and you didn’t care.” Lara Jean shakes her head. She can’t tell if Gen is talking about Peter or herself now. But it _was_ both of them, wasn’t it? She _and_ Peter – and Lara Jean never realized it . . .

 

_She’s so screwed up._

 

But then Gen seems to gather herself, draw inward. She straightens and cocks her head to the side, almost clinical in her assessment of them. She walks up to Peter, reaches into his jacket – pulls out the ledger. She flips through the pages idly, then closes the ledger with a snap – taps it lightly on his chest, and tucks it under her arm. “Thank you. Now I have all the information I need to take over Ted’s operations all by myself.”

 

She turns on her heel. “Dispose of them,” she says, with a wave of her hand. And without a backward glance, she stalks out of the room.

 

*

 

It happens too quickly.

 

Peter takes one beat to glance at Covey, to make sure she’s okay and on board.

 

That _tick_ flickers across her features and despite the situation, despite every crazy fucking thing that’s happened today (hell, in the past ten minutes), Peter almost laughs. Because, _of course._

 

The big guy levels his gun at Peter’s face.

And Peter he dodges to the left – slaps his hand up and forces the guard to fire uselessly into the ceiling as Peter elbows him sharply in the ribs. Then Peter pulls, angling the man’s arm and pressing the trigger for him. _One_ , he thinks, as the guard advancing towards them drops like a sack of bloodied potatoes, a bullet between his eyes. Peter aims for the other two remaining guards, firing – but the big guy’s struggling, causing him to miss, and the two manage to scatter, taking cover. Feeling his grip on the big guard loosening, Peter wrenches the gun away and whips his arm around, smacking the butt of the gun against the man’s nose, then again in a swift arc against the temple. Blood goes flying and he stumbles backwards into the dining room table, unconscious. Glasses and plates shatter on the floor.

 

*

 

_I’m gonna kill him._

 

But first, she has to survive today.

 

As soon as Lara Jean sees the big guard move towards Peter, she drops – sweeps her leg out and swings it low against her guard’s ankles. He falls, and when he hits the ground, she brings her leg back again and snaps her steel-toed boot right into his jaw. He lets go of his gun with a surprised whoof of air. Lara Jean dives for it, but so does he, and in their scramble it just pushes closer to underneath the heavy dining hutch.

 

*

 

Behind Peter, he can hear the two other guards rush forward. He brings the gun up again, firing rapidly – but blindly. He hits the first man, who staggers back, clutching his shoulder and howling, and misses the second. That one launches into Peter, knocking both of them to the ground, and the gun clatters away.

 

Grunting, Peter knees the guy in the stomach, but he won’t let go of his neck. Instead, his attacker bashes the back of Peter’s head into the ground. Glass cuts into his scalp. _Fuck,_ he manages to think, as stars explode in front of his eyes.

 

*

 

Lara Jean’s vaguely aware of Peter, shooting and fighting behind them. She makes a final lunge for the gun, but the guard gets there first – rolls onto his side and aims for her. Desperate, she grabs his wrist and brings her leg up and crashes it down on his forearm. The man cries out, and this time the gun falls and slides underneath the hutch, lost.

 

*

 

Peter’s hand scrabbles at the ground and he brings up a broken glass – stabs it viciously into the guy’s neck, as hard as he can. Blood spurts into Peter’s face – the man’s eyes bulge as he lets go of Peter and clutches desperately at his neck. Peter takes a grateful breath in, tasting blood, but ignores it and stabs deeper. The thug spits rivulets of blood and Peter pushes his feet into his chest, pushing him off. _Two._

 

Somewhere to his right, he hears a scream of pain – coughing, still trying to bring air past his aching throat, he sees Covey, struggling with her guard on the floor. Her hair is half out of her bun, and she’s stabbed one of her hairpins into the guy’s hand, nailing his palm to the hardwood.

 

But before he can stand, before he can try and help her, the guy Peter shot in the shoulder is up and aiming his gun. “Covey get down!” he yells, sliding under the table. He manages to up-end it just as the guy starts firing continuously. He hears a squeal of surprise and Covey dashes to his side behind the table, hands over her head.

 

“You good?” he asks, wincing under the spray of bullets.

 

She glares at him from underneath her hands. “If I didn’t need your ass to help me out of his mess, I would kill you myself.”

 

“Are you _really_ telling me ‘I told you so’? _Now_?” A bullet whizzes through the table, between their faces. “She was gonna help us ‘til _you_ got touchy-feely at Darrell’s!”

 

Her eyes go wide in outrage. “You’re blaming _me?!_ ”

 

The gunfire abruptly stops. They hear the guard mutter something – he must be out. Peter puts a finger to his lips.

 

“Billy, you okay?” the shooter yells.

 

Peter looks at the other guard, his hand still pinned to the floor. To his surprise, he’s foaming at the mouth, choking, his body wracked by spasms. Lara Jean mouths, _Poison._

 

Across the room, Peter hears the guard start to creep out cautiously, his boots cracking on glass and debris.

 

Peter searches the floor – somewhere is the lost gun, but he can’t find it. Instead, Lara Jean pulls out her last hairpin and hands it to him. He flips it in his hand, testing the weight – then gets down on his haunches, counts. Waits.

 

Then he springs up, throws the pin into the guard’s chest - he falls backwards, and his gun thuds to the floor. Peter rushes forward and grabs it, finding that he was indeed out of bullets. The guy is already dead, spit and blood oozing from his mouth and nose. _Three_.

 

He checks the other guy who Lara Jean had staked earlier. He’s staring up at the ceiling, body still twitching like he’s shivering in the cold. Then suddenly his eyes go glassy and he seems to sigh. _Four._

 

The entire house seems to have gone absolutely still. Lara Jean stands, surveys the damage. Then suddenly, outside, they hear an engine gun. She runs to the window. “It’s Gen,” she says.

 

“Go,” he says, distracted. Something doesn’t feel right. And then it occurs to him ...

 

_What happened to five ...?_

 

He gets his answer, as all the wind is knocked out of him when the big guard throws him to the floor and starts raining kicks and punches. “Covey, go!” he manages to shout.

 

“Peter!”

 

“Just - ah! Go! I got this! Get her!”

 

*

 

Agonized, Lara Jean spares Peter another glance before she sees him leap up, fighting back. She runs out of the room and through the hall - out the front door. Gen’s BMW tears down the drive, towards the woods.

 

Lara Jean runs to the Jeep, pops the trunk. Underneath the blanket is the sniper rifle. She picks it up, cocks it, and aims.

 

She’s got a clear shot of the back of Gen’s head.

 

Her finger curls around the trigger.

 

And then all of a sudden, Lara Jean remembers what she said to Peter ( _“I just find it hard to believe you’re one hundred percent fine with possibly offing your ex”_ ), what Gen said to them ( _“You two have no idea what it was like . . . When I needed you the most, you were gone, and you didn’t care_ ”) and – and . . .

 

Lara Jean shuts her eyes.

 

She gulps, shaking. Opens her eyes, levels her grip a fraction.

 

And pulls the trigger.

 

The shot echoes through the woods - birds take off from the branches squawking at the precise moment the tire blows out. The BMW careens off the road, gravel spraying, and crashes at full speed into an evergreen tree that shudders, the noise of it echoing in Lara Jean’s chest. The lights blink in time to the glare of the alarm. Lara Jean dashes back to the trunk, pulls out a zip tie, and runs down the road towards the wreck.

 

Amidst the white airbag she can see a splatter of blood. Lara Jean opens the driver’s side door and keeps the rifle aimed at Gen, the upper half of her body almost floating on top of the airbag. She takes her by the shoulder and lays her back against the driver’s seat. Gen’s eyelids flutter and her head lolls while Lara Jean searches for any weapons. A stream of blood trickles steadily down her broken nose. Finding the gun, Lara Jean pockets it and unfurls the zip tie to fasten Gen’s hands to the wheel.

 

Gen’s eyes open – they briefly focus in on Lara Jean. She coughs. “Why?” she asks, confused.

 

Lara Jean looks down at her, pitying. Gen’s eyes harden in disdain before her head rolls forward, out cold. Lara Jean slams the door shut and runs back up to the house to help Peter.

 

She bursts through the front door, in time to hear a shout – a heavy thud.

 

And then - a gunshot. Then three more, in rapid succession.

 

Silence.

 

_Oh god_ , she thinks - she runs down the hall, boots pounding, rifle raised and finger on the trigger - reaches the doorway - thinks, _He’s dead, oh god_ – runs through it –

 

And almost shoots Peter in the chest.

 

They stare at each other for a half-second – bloodied, wide-eyed and unbelieving - and then she staggers forward, into his arms, ragged and close to sobbing, “I thought - I thought you were - ”

 

“Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay,” he keeps whispering, arms tight around her.

 

She nods, rapidly, swallowing - tries to stop the tears from falling. She drops the rifle to the ground and puts both arms around his waist. _My god. Oh my god._ All she can see is Kenny’s limp body lying in the street - Josh, the light dimming rapidly from his eyes - and she shudders.

 

She’s too busy trying to stop herself from shivering to notice that Peter’s pulled himself back slightly - both his hands are cupping her face, thumbs gently brushing against her cheeks. Lara Jean blinks - his expression’s gone hard, mean almost, as he looks at her. He pushes back some hair, sticky with sweat and blood, from her forehead.

 

“You okay?” he asks, quietly. “I – I heard a crash, I thought – ”

 

And then she realizes – he was worried, too.

 

She licks her lips, nods rapidly. “Yes,” she rasps, grabbing his wrists. Then, more firmly, “Yes. I’m okay.”

 

“Okay,” he breathes out, and the relief in his voice makes her pause. He leans forward and she closes her eyes - feels him press a kiss, firm, on her forehead - another, on her eyebrow, and she shuffles forward blindly, wraps her arms around his waist again. Squeezes, as tight as she can.

 

_He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s okay ..._

 

_-_ tbc-


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so late, sorry sorry sorry
> 
> i thiiiink that's an accurate chapter count now? idk? ignore me.

They wait for the chopper on the front stoop, sitting side-by-side on the steps. Gen’s lying on the ground not too far away, still unconscious and underneath a blanket, her hands and feet bound by zip-ties.

 

Peter keeps looking at her, back to Lara Jean, who’s got her arms folded around herself, her gaze at her feet. When he’d heard the crash, he’d honestly thought something had happened to Covey. And then when they got back to the car, he’d thought Gen would be dead.

 

This day’s just been full of freaking surprises.

 

“You know, she doesn’t deserve your kindness,” he says, finally voicing what he’s been mulling over this past half hour.

 

She shrugs her shoulders. Doesn’t speak for a long time. “Maybe not. She gets it anyway.”

 

He shakes his head in wonderment at her.

 

“What?” she asks, wry. “Let me guess. Dumbass move?”

 

He almost grins at her reference to their ongoing fight about _Casablanca._ “Nah,” he says. “Was gonna say something like ‘it was the right thing to do.’”

 

She snorts, then perks up. He stops too. He can hear it – the distant _chud chud chud_ , growing louder. They both stand as the wind kicks up and dust and dirt fly and the chopper bursts from the tree-line, landing on the circular drive.

 

A tall Asian man descends with the medevac crew – Peter’s a bit surprised to see it is Trevor Pike himself. The technicians roll out a stretcher for Gen and the extraction team jog past Peter and Lara Jean and into the house, guns raised.

 

“Clean up crew is gonna have to deal with that first,” Trevor says, waving indistinctly towards the cabin. “We got another mess in Paris, and Boss is in Sydney right now. He wants to debrief you both in person.”

 

Ah. Well, they’re in for it, Peter realizes, resigned.

 

“Greg!” Lara Jean exclaims, suddenly. Peter and Trevor look at her, confused. “Luminescent. All the employees. What’s going to happen to them? Their VP is dead, their CFO is gone –”

 

That’s enough turmoil to ruin an entire company. The thought that something they did could ruin so many innocent lives curdles Peter’s stomach. Greg’s been great. He’d – he’d even call him a friend, in another life. He’s got a wife and a kid and . . .

 

Trevor rubs his chin, thinking. “We’ll figure something out,” he says, eventually. “I’m sure we’ll find better candidates to replace the Blakes.” His watch pings and he checks out the message before he says, “Extraction and clean up for the love nest probably won’t happen til tomorrow, earliest. You okay with that?”

 

Lara Jean murmurs something, rubbing her upper arms. Peter’s too busy watching the crew strap Gen into the gurney and load her into the chopper to reply. Trevor’s still talking, but he ignores him, and walks up to the gurney.

 

Gen squints at him. Through the oxygen mask, she says, “You gon’ kill me now?”

 

Peter hesitates. He truly doesn’t know _what_ is going to happen. He’s always made his kills. The handful of times he’d been asked to bring somebody in were for specific purposes, mandated by the Board, the group of shadowy men and women in suits. Gen, very simply, is an outlier.

 

When he doesn’t answer, she starts to giggle – until her face seems to crack, tears streaming down her cheeks and through the dried blood. She mumbles something that Peter can’t quite hear. The medevac crew member shakes her head and says, “Up and at ‘em,” and they lift her into the chopper.

 

Peter turns away, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. He hears Trevor say, “You two should probably get checked out yourselves,” but he just shrugs, pensive. An agent jogs out of the house and hands him and Covey their cell phones that the guards had confiscated – Covey pockets hers, and Peter snorts and does as well, even though the screen is smashed to bits.

 

“I’ll give you a heads up before we come tomorrow. See you.” Trevor claps him on the shoulder before he heads up into the house, barking questions and orders.

 

 _Tomorrow_.

 

Peter looks up, at Covey. She’s watching the chopper as it takes off, her hair flying up everywhere.

 

He just silently goes to the Jeep. After a moment she follows. They slip into their seats, and as he starts the car, he spares the chopper a final glance just before it disappears over the trees. It’s entirely his imagination, but he can hear Gen, still giggling.

 

*

 

Lara Jean keeps her arms folded across her chest, hugging herself. Sometimes, she’ll sneak a glance at Peter. He looks tired, his mouth set into a firm line. Sometimes, she’ll stare out the passenger window and think she hears him shift, as if about to say something, but then she’ll turn and it’s like he hasn’t moved.

 

She doesn’t know what to say. How to say it. What to think.

 

So, she sets her forehead against the passenger side window, closes her eyes. She jerks awake in what feels like a few moments later, confused – she’s still in the car, but how come it’s getting dark? “Peter?” she murmurs.

 

“We hit traffic,” he says. “Pile-up. We’ve been here a while. We’re not far that far from home. The house, I mean.”

 

She yawns. “Do you want me to switch off?”

 

He clicks his tongue, derisive. “You’re practically a zombie, Covey. I got this.”

 

“’Kay.” She closes her eyes and falls asleep again, grateful.

 

She has an absolutely awful dream, though, the kind where you know it’s a dream, but still can’t wake up. She’s back in high school, and she’s just told Gen she got into UNC and will be going there.

 

“We’ll always be friends, though, right?” Gen asks.

 

“Of course,” Lara Jean says, knowing that this is what she told Gen before, and knowing that she never meant it, either. Because she was so grateful to be going, far away, to not have to deal with Gen’s constant drama – her vindictiveness towards exes, her meanness towards perceived school enemies . . . even – even her legitimate grievances against her creepy dad and her uncaring mom.

 

And instead of smiling and hugging her, Gen scowls. “Liar. You’re a fucking liar, Lara Jean Covey.”

 

“No,” Lara Jean says, shaking her head.

 

“You were always gonna leave,” Gen yells, grabbing onto Lara Jean’s shoulders, her face inches from hers. “You leave. Everybody leaves. Everybody leaves you, your mother, your partners, John – everybody leaves, and you’re fucked.”

 

*

 

Peter presses the key fob, and the automatic garage door grinds open. Next to him, Lara Jean sits up – his jacket, which he’d laid on top of her, puddles to the Jeep’s floor at her feet.

 

“Wha -?” she mumbles, reaching to pick it up.

 

“We’re home,” he says, concentrating on pulling the Jeep inside without bumping the walls. As soon as he shifts the gear into park, she hops out and shuffles into the dark house. She turns on all the lights, hangs up Peter’s jacket and hers on the coat hooks in the hall – sits on the bench gingerly and slowly undoes the laces of her combat boots.

 

Peter moves slowly to the kitchen. Stuck, unmoving, in a vehicle for hours did not help things with his back and ribs. He takes quiet, careful steps to the fridge where he pulls out two beers and then leans against the island.

 

“I don’t want one,” Lara Jean demurs.

 

“That’s good, because they’re both for me,” he quips. He opens one, and as he proceeds to take long, deep gulps, presses the other against the side of his head. The cold feels good.

 

Lara Jean smirks. She limps to the hallway closet and pulls out the Company-issued First Aid kit. Then she washes her hands in the kitchen sink. “Come on,” she says, as if speaking to an unruly child, jerking her head to the dining room where he can sit on the dining table bench instead of the too-tall island stools.

 

“I’m not moving from this spot,” he grumbles.

 

“You’re a big baby,” she says, grabbing his wrist, and he groans but complies.

 

“At least the couch?”

 

“You’re filthy!”

 

“It’s not even _our_ couch!”

 

“ _Peter_.”

 

He sighs and sits down on the bench. “Fine, but I’m drinking,” he says, and takes another swig.

 

Lara Jean doesn’t bother arguing. She sets the First Aid kit down on the table, and gets to work, standing before him. He knows there’s a pretty bad split on the side of his head, but that’s already clotted over, and she starts cleaning that off first, ignoring his wincing.

 

Done, she takes the beer from him, clunks it down on the table, and examines his hands. She runs her fingers, light, across his knuckles – all of which are bruised and cracked, smeared with dark blood. She tries to suppress a sigh, but can’t help her face from pinching in the way that he now knows is worry.

 

“I’ve had worse,” he insists, ducking his head to try and meet her eyes, to reassure her.

 

“Could’ve fooled me,” she grumbles.

 

He turns his hands, palms up – takes hold of her hands. Although she’d washed them, her own knuckles are pretty bad, too. He sucks in a breath at the sight of them, and then says, quietly, “Sorry.”

 

“For what?” she says, confused.

 

He shrugs, shakes his head – gaze still on her hands. “You know. Everything. Gen. You were right about her.”

 

“Was I?” she wonders. “I don’t think I was. But I think – I think she was right about me, though. When I left for college, I didn’t care. I was just so glad to get out, to get away.”

 

He nods, bleak, staring off into space at the floor. It was what he’d been thinking, too, on the drive back. The relief when he and Gen broke up, for real – and the guilt, now.

 

“You know what the terrible thing is?” she says, quietly. “I think even if I _did_ know everything . . . and I mean _everything_ . . . I think I still would’ve left her behind.”

 

He looks up at that. “You were a kid, Covey. Kids do stupid, shitty things. Doesn’t mean you’re a terrible person. Maybe she should’ve told you. Told us. Maybe she should’ve treated us better.”

 

Her expression softens, and she reaches out – taps a finger, light, against the middle of his brows. Against the line he unconsciously knows is there. He closes his eyes. “Maybe you should take your own advice?”

 

“And what’s that?” he asks, as she brushes the pads of her fingers down, to the line of his jaw. He can feel the bruise there – the scratch. The big guard had a ring that cut into him during the fight.

 

“Well, a very wise person once told me that maybe we shouldn’t feel guilty about shit we have no control over. It’s a thing.”

 

He opens his eyes, smirks up at her. “I don’t think I said it like that.”

 

“Something like that,” she amends, and he snickers and she giggles, and then he realizes she’s standing in between his legs, and he’s still holding on to her hand.

 

Warmth loosens in his chest – and she steps closer, and he leans forward, resting his head against her shoulder. His hands go back to her waist, gently stroking. She winds her arm around his neck and plays with his hair.

 

And although it kills him to say it, he says it anyway.

 

“I think we’d better stop before I do something I’m gonna regret,” he mumbles, into her shoulder.

 

She shifts her head, kisses his temple, light and tender. It makes him almost want to sigh. He might have, just now. “I think you’re right,” she whispers into his hair.

 

He presses a kiss into the crook of her neck – feels her shudder. “Don’t wanna go and break _all_ the rules in our contract,” he mutters.

 

Lara Jean chuckles. “Yeah, well, we can’t have that, now, can we?”

 

“Nope. Not at all.”

 

“Which, by the way, I think you broke the majority of them first.”

 

He pulls back, eyebrow arched. “Uh, _you_ were the one who jumped me.”

 

“That was completely necessary,” she says, imperious. He scoffs. “If I hadn’t, we wouldn’t have gotten out of Luminescent. _You_ were the one who decided that hanging out upstairs all the time was better than going down to the basement that _you_ chose.”

 

“Yeah? Well, I had good reason to.”

 

Lara Jean blushes at the implication, which only makes his grin widen. She bites her lip, looks at him askance, hesitant. “Do you ever – do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if . . . you know . . . if we were never part of the Company?”

 

“What? You mean, like, just a regular guy and a regular girl who happen to be neighbors in the same apartment?” He asks it as if it’s a silly romcom premise, like one of her favorites.

 

She giggles. “Yeah. Kinda. Like . . . like what if I just e-mailed the apartment listserv for extra eggs, and you answered the door?”

 

“Ah.” He nods, sagely. “Well . . . I guess I would’ve done the same thing. Asked to taste your egg stuh . . . what was it, again?”

 

“Egg strata,” she says, smiling softly.

 

“Egg strata,” he repeats, smiling back, just as softly. “Would you have invited me up?”

 

She cocks her head. “Yes,” she says. “And made you a cup of coffee. Would you have asked me out on a second date?”

 

“Yes,” he says, simply, and her face turns even redder, her smile warmer, softer. “I would’ve asked you to the movies. But I think we would’ve argued about what to watch. Like always.” He cuffs her lightly on the chin, as she giggles. “But I dunno. I kinda like the way we did meet. Just . . . you know. With certain rules removed.”

 

Lara Jean’s smile fades, to one of sadness. She pulls away from him as gently as she can, as kindly. His index finger brushes her pinky – a simple, fleeting good-bye . . .

 

Peter says, with understanding, “Good night, Lara Jean.”

 

“Good night, Peter,” she mumbles, and walks away, up the stairs. He watches until she disappears into the darkness above.

 

That settles it. He’ll have to move out of the apartment. Move, far away. The Company probably wouldn’t care because they just don’t know, there really is no reason to suspect, but he does. He knows. And there’s no way he’ll be able to live in the same place as her, just a few floors down and – and just _pretend_ everything’s okay, everything’s normal.

 

He pulls out his phone, starts searching for places. He’s always hopped around. Maybe it’s time to go to a completely different city. In all his travels, he’s never actually lived in New York. He’s always liked it the most, out of any city he’s been to. Maybe he’ll try there . . .

 

*

 

Lara Jean sits on the edge of her unmade bed. There are piles of clothes everywhere, some dirty, some clean. Through the open door to the master bathroom, she can see all her toiletries scattered on the granite countertops. Frankly, it’s a mess – a mess that she’ll have to pack up, all by tomorrow.

 

Sighing, she gets up and starts peeling off her ruined clothes. She’s about to put on the shower when she hears a notification from her tablet.

 

_ETA 12:30 p.m. tmw. Extraction cover attached._

 

It’s from Trevor. It’s super straightforward, a one-and-done excuse – they are to tell anyone who asks that they just got word that Peter’s mother is gravely ill, and they will have to move cross-country immediately to help. Idly, Lara Jean wonders if Peter’s mother is even _in_ Atlanta. He’s never said.

 

She wonders what Talia will say. If the book club members will miss her lemon sugar cookies. If Pammy and Darrell will finally get pregnant – they’ve been trying, for ages now. If Keisha will make the plunge and go back to work after years of being a stay-at-home mom. If Greg will finally get that promotion . . . if he even has a job to go back to . . .

 

She jumps – she heard the floorboards creak. Peter’s just walked past her bedroom, headed to his own. It could be her imagination, but she could’ve sworn he’d paused for a moment, right outside her door.

 

She stares down at the tablet – brings up her profile. Her letter of resignation is still a blinking yellow, stuck in the purgatory of processing. Quite honestly, she’s surprised it hasn’t been outright rejected yet. If, by some miracle, Boss decides _not_ to slap her with another debt for this mess of a mission – if he decides to _finally_ accept her resignation and relinquish her – well . . . she’s not sure how to react, now.

 

She stands up, puts the tablet back on her night stand, next to her hatbox. She tugs at the bow on top, and brushes her fingers against the silk, her thoughts a whirl.

 

All she can think of is that this – all of this – with, or without her resignation, is ending. All of it. Tomorrow.

 

*

 

She really doesn’t know what she’s doing – what she’ll say. Two ships passing in the night? It’s isn’t that, for her. For him? Maybe – he as good as admitted to her the notches on his bedpost. But she’s never been that type of person. It’s what got her into trouble in the first place.

 

And yet . . . here she is, suddenly standing in front of his bedroom door, in only her underwear and bathrobe, waiting for him to answer her knock.

 

“Peter?” She knocks again, and the door squeaks open a crack. Now she can hear it – the steady patter of water.

 

He’s in the shower.

 

She pushes the bedroom door wider, pads over to the bathroom. That door is open a sliver, steam billowing through. Lara Jean bites her lip, nervous. “Peter?” She presses the door with her first three fingers, and it opens wide.

 

He’s in the shower, back to her, water raining down on him so that curly mess of hair of his is flattened against his head. Steam clouds the glass shower door, but she can see him bent over, left hand against the white subway tiles, as he just lets the shower run over him, over his head and down his neck and the muscles of his back.

 

His bruised back. She can clearly see a large bloom of black and blue down his right side. She knew he’d been hurt, but he hadn’t said . . .

 

Then, as if he seems to sense she’s there, he looks over his shoulder at her, his hand still on the tiles. His eyes narrow, just slightly, like he’s confused – like he sees her, but he’s wondering if she’s really there.

 

Her heart seems to freeze with doubt – maybe he doesn’t want to. After all, he’d been the one to say no outright, just now. Maybe –

 

But, no. Not the way he’s looking at her . . . careful, cautious. But warmed over with something more, something like anticipation. Hope.

 

Lara Jean swallows, ducks her chin – but holds his gaze. She pulls open her robe, lets it drop to the floor next to the heap of his clothes. Peter straightens, turns around, and watches her slip out of her underwear and into the shower with him.

 

Inside, the steam cloys her lungs, makes her heady. The hot water plasters her hair in a thick helmet around the sides of her face, her back. And despite the temperature of the water her entire body feels tight, shaky – like a violin string, pulled taut.

 

If she were to take just one half-step forward, she’d be right up against him – and the mood, which had already shifted to something like standing on the edge of a precipice, changes entirely again. His gaze changes – from almost curious to intense, longing, and she’s already taken that half-step, or maybe even he’d already reached out, because next thing she knows she’s leaning her forehead against his, her shaking fingers digging into his shoulders, trying and desperate to find calm.

 

“I – I got the message – from Trevor, and I – just couldn’t – ” she mumbles, at a loss.

 

“Uh-huh, yeah,” he manages to say, right before he pulls her closer – or maybe she pulls him, it’s a little confused at the moment. And then he’s pressing hot, frantic kisses against her cheek – the corner of her mouth – fully, on the lips, and she opens her mouth and sweeps the flat of her tongue against his, damp and hot and wanting.

 

Peter inhales, as if in surprise – it seems to draw her in deeper into the kiss, and she begins to tremble, at the insistent movement of his mouth against hers – at the heat of his hand, traveling up and then down the length of her spine, slicing through hot rivulets of water, to cup her ass. Lara Jean kisses him harder, dives her hands through his wet hair – pulls, gently – and his hand on her butt twitches – stays there, flexes.

 

“A-are you sure?” It comes out ragged, breathless, between their kisses – like her answer depends on everything. And in a way, it does.

 

“Yes.” And she is. She’s certain.

 

After all, how else can she keep him close to her forever? A part of her no one – not even the Company – can take away? She doesn’t want to write another letter, put it – put _him_ – in a hatbox full of regrets.

 

“Good.” He backs her up against the tiles, and she lets out a squeal of surprise. “What – ?!”

 

“Cold!” she exclaims, laughing.

 

He laughs, too. “Sorry!”

 

She hesitates, and touches his right side gently, watching the water stream around the dam of her fingers. “Are you okay?” she asks, looking up at him.

 

He leans down, kisses her again, once – sweet, and soft. “Yes,” he says, and kisses her again, this time deeper, and harder, and there’s nothing left for her to do but reach down and grab hold of his dick. His head falls forward, and he lets out a choked sound against her shoulder - she shifts, and kisses his earlobe, as she begins to stroke him quickly. His hips jerk forward, against hers, and he makes that sound again, the one that makes her blood thrum, and she bites down on his ear. “Fuck,” he gasps, and then slides his leg between hers, forcing them open. He has to stoop a little, but then his hand is there, fumbling, wet – finding her clit, rubbing it, making her pant and move her hips forward – and then, pushing in, all the way in . . . and out . . . and in again . . . and – and –

 

“God,” she whispers, trying to keep her own hand steady, biting again on his ear – _hard_ . . . his hips jerk again, and then his other hand squeezes her ass, lifts her up, back sliding against the clammy tiles – she wraps her legs around his waist, and he stumbles a bit, feet slipping on the shower floor, and she has to laugh again. He does, too, a low sound deep in his chest. But then it cuts off, because she guides him in, and the back of her head hits the tiles, and he’s filling her up, he’s filled her up –

 

Peter mouths his way up the line of her neck, kisses her again, pushes up into her – her back slides up the tiles, water sliding everywhere around them. It’s a slow, steady rhythm that she relishes as she tries to find breath between his kisses, through the thick steam. But eventually, he grows sporadic, frantic – and then he works his hand between them, thumb circling her clit – and she shivers, teeth catching on the line of his throat.

 

“God, Covey, I – you’re so – ” He bends his head, kisses her breasts – laves her nipple and then she’s coming, she’s coming in a rush of heat – tight, tight around him, as his hips spasm against her, hard, fast, and he groans – and she can only hold on, gasping.

 

Later – after the shower water goes suddenly, incredibly cold, leaving both of them screaming and laughing at the abrupt change in temperature – and they escape and towel off together – she tries to go back to her bedroom, only to get pulled back into his bed with a sneaky, shit-eating grin and deep, languid kisses that turn progressively more heated.

 

And when she wakes up in the middle of the night, confused over where she is in that bleary half-moment between dreams and true awareness, she feels the steadiness of his chest against her back – the drape of his arm around her waist.

 

“What’s the matter?” she hears him whisper. She mumbles something, shakes her head. “Go back to sleep.”

 

“Thought you were gone,” she says, turning over to face him, her eyes still closed.

 

“Not going anywhere,” he says. He sounds wide awake.

 

She nods, still half-asleep. Under the covers, she hooks her leg over his hip and pulls herself closer to him.

 

“Damn, Covey,” he laughs. “I know I’m good, but _three_ in a row – ”

 

She laughs at his insolence, tries to push away from him, but he grabs on and rolls her onto her back. In the darkness, his features are muted, but she can still see the expression in them – soft, and tender, the gentlest of eyes, all humor gone.

 

The back of her throat goes tight, and there’s nothing to do, nothing to say, but to drift her hands down his back, pull him closer to her, into her. She’s so preoccupied, and exhausted, that she doesn’t even think to wonder why he was awake in the first place.

 

-tbc-


	17. Chapter 17

Peter lifts his head from the pillow, confused. Bright sunlight filters in through the blinds – it’s well into the morning. He blinks, wipes the sleep from his eyes, and turns from his front and sits up on his elbows. Lara Jean is gone, though the covers are indented and rumpled and warm, so she must have just left. In fact, he can smell the evidence of bacon and coffee wafting up from downstairs – the sound of music coming from the kitchen.

 

He’s just more impressed she managed to sneak away in the first place. He yawns, scrubs the back of his head. He hadn’t been able to sleep at all last night, too keyed up and thinking about everything – about what’s going to happen, now. He’d only finally settled on something when the birds outside started to chirp. That, he supposes, was how he’d managed to get to sleep in the first place.

 

Suddenly energized despite the lack of sleep, he bounds right out of bed, intent on searching for some clothes, but almost stumbles, groaning – he’d forgotten about his goddamned back. The fight yesterday – not to mention all the bedroom antics – really did a fucking a number on him. He pops two ibuprofen – reconsiders – then pops in two more, before he opens the door to head downstairs.

 

He’s halfway down the second floor hallway when he hears it, just under the 1950’s stuff Lara Jean likes to listen to while making breakfast – childish laughter, followed by Lara Jean’s teasing. Peter makes his way to the kitchen and finds Talia seated at the island, sprinkling cinnamon onto rolled-out dough, as Lara Jean hands coffee cups to Greg and Keisha.

 

“Oh, hey,” he says, surprised and a little thrown. He’d wanted to talk to Covey, but now that’s going to have to wait.

 

“Hey, Peter,” Greg says, warmly. “We’re sorry to hear about your mom.”

 

“Do you guys really _have_ to move?” Talia asks, fairly dumping the cinnamon in the middle of the dough.

 

“I’m sorry, honey,” Lara Jean says, hugging her about the shoulders. “But yeah. We do.”

 

“I just can’t believe it has to be today,” Keisha says. “I know, I know, it’s your mother, but . . .”

 

“We’re sorry too,” Peter says, getting into the swing of things. “She doesn’t really have anyone else.”

 

“Can’t you come back? When she’s better?” Talia asks.

 

“Talia,” Keisha warns, softly.

 

“Well, there’ll be a job waiting for you,” Greg says, raising his brows over his coffee mug. Peter looks at him, surprised. “Didn’t you read the e-mail? Ted’s out.”

 

“No, I hadn’t,” Peter says, feigning shock. “Wow. That’s crazy.”

 

“Yeah. Board kicked him out. They’re actually looking at yours truly,” Greg says, puffing out his chest. “I got the verbal already.”

 

“That’s fantastic.” Peter pounds him on the back, genuinely happy – and relieved – for him and his family. Then there’s the general chatter and bustle of finishing breakfast prep, and Lara Jean trying to help Talia with rolling up the cinnamon rolls. In the middle of pouring out coffee re-fills, Peter pauses and places a hand on the small of Lara Jean’s back, as she’s showing Talia how to mix the frosting. She doesn’t otherwise react – just leans into his touch a little – and he presses a quick kiss on her temple, before turning back to Greg to talk about the last night’s baseball game. (He didn’t watch it, of course, being otherwise occupied …) It’s then, he realizes, watching Lara Jean chatter with Keisha and Talia, that Covey’s wearing one of his shirts, underneath her open robe. It’s from one of his top drawers, and it’s so big on her it might as well be a dress.

 

“Nice shirt,” he mumbles, when they all finally sit down to breakfast.

 

She smiles behind her coffee cup, lifts her brows. “Thought you wouldn’t mind,” she says, calmly enough, although her cheeks turn pink.

 

He just winks, and tries not to smile.

 

It seems like it takes forever for the Riveras to leave – not that he’s rushing them out the door, because he’ll genuinely miss their company, and it’s not at all hard to be sad about “moving” – but . . . it does seem to take forever. Especially after Talia decides to throw a temper tantrum because her parents have to take her to her dance lesson soon, and she still wants to hang out with Lara Jean and make a good-bye card. It takes some cajoling from all four adults to get her to go, including a promise from Covey that she’ll send her a letter when they arrive in Atlanta.

 

As the front door closes behind the Rivera family, Peter knows better than to ask Lara Jean if she’ll hold to her promise. She won’t be allowed to. And he can tell it breaks her heart a little bit knowing that, as she goes back to the dining table to start clearing off the remnants of breakfast.

 

“Sorry about that,” she says, as they load the dishwasher. “Keisha called, wanted to know about going shopping today – and I had to tell her, so she wanted to say good-bye, and you were still asleep – “

 

“It’s cool,” he says. “Totally get it. I’m gonna miss them too.” They work in silence for a bit, before he ventures, “You know, you could always sneak in a postcard, once in a while.”

 

She washes her hands in the kitchen sink, gives him a thin smile. “I dunno. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea.”

 

“Well, a lot of things happened on this mission that wasn’t a good idea, and look where we are now,” Peter says, mildly, which makes her snicker. The music switches over to something slower, and he makes a motion with his hands. “Come on. Come here.” She giggles, surprised, but acquiesces and soon they’re swaying together and in the middle of the kitchen, her cheek against his chest and her hand in his. “So . . .” he broaches, about halfway through their slow-dance. “I think we broke the entire fake marriage contract.”

 

“Mmm,” she snorts. “I’d say.”

 

“There’s really only one thing left to do.”

 

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

 

“Well, clearly we have to make another contract. Do this all over again.”

 

“Oh, you mean the whole fake married couple thing?” He can feel her smirk, the corner of her mouth going up, through his t-shirt.

 

“Well, I mean, that definitely has a few advantages,” he jokes, sliding his hand down to lightly cup her butt for a second. She laughs and grabs his wrist, shifts it so his hand stays firmly on her waist again. He pouts but they start swaying again, and then he murmurs, “I meant the partner thing.” He feels her stiffen in his arms and he hurries, “Logistically, I know it can’t happen _every_ mission but we can put in requests. No one has to know about – _you know_.” She hasn’t said anything, so he starts to ramble. “I get it, rules are rules and I don’t want Boss pissed at me anymore than you do. I figure, I’ll move it so no one gets actually suspicious, but I’ll still stay in D.C. – ”

 

“You know I’m done, right?” she whispers. “That this was my last mission. Boss hasn’t approved it yet, but, I think he might. Yesterday was a disaster, but he would’ve done something already if he was really that mad.”  
  
“Yeah.” Unconsciously, his grip tightens - as if to keep her here, with him - and she nuzzles deeper into his chest. “I guess rescinding it is out of the question?”  
  
She takes a long time to answer, and when she does, her reply is shaky, her voice high. “Peter, I can’t. I just can’t, anymore.”

 

His heart dives. He’d lain awake practically all of last night because he’d figured that she’d say this. He likes to think he knows her well enough to have guessed that. Even now, though, he’s still confused. He pulls away, maybe too abruptly, and she almost jumps. She hugs herself, eyes downcast.

 

*

 

“So – that’s it,” Peter says, terse. “You’re just – done. I can’t believe that.”

 

“What’s so unbelievable about it?” she asks, tired.

 

“Well, for one thing, you like your job, and you’re good at it,” he says. She shakes her head. “What? The Luminescent op – ”

 

“It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye,” she says. “But with us, it’s more an just an eye, right? I’m tired, Peter. Parts of it I like. Parts of it I _liked_. But – everything else . . . I keep thinking about those 153 confirmed kills.” She shakes her head. “Make that 154.”

 

“They all deserved it.”

 

“I’m sure a lot of them did,” she says, simply. “But I’m also sure some of them were doing things they might not have wanted to do, in the beginning. That they got caught up in stuff they shouldn’t have, and didn’t realize it, until it was too late. Like Gen.” His eyes shadow, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe some of them had families, kids. I don’t know. All I know is I got in for my mother. I gave up so much. I keep thinking – I keep thinking about what I missed, what I’m missing. And I’m tired of having regrets.”

 

“And was last night one of those ‘regrets’?” he says, and she looks up, at the bitterness in his voice.

 

“No. Never.”

 

He snorts, unbelieving.

 

Lara Jean puts her hands to her cheeks. Her palms feel cold, her face hot. Everything is just whirling out of control. “I – I – I thought – I thought I would say goodbye . . . I thought you did this kind of stuff all the time – ”

 

“Who the fuck told you that?!”

 

“ _You_ did!” she exclaims. His eyes bug out – _What the fuck?_ – and she exclaims, “On the couch! The other night!”

 

He seems to twig, but snaps back, “I thought you were _joking_ and you were _drunk!_ On _one_ glass of wine!”

 

“Well, I’m sorry I’m a such a lightweight, but I thought you were serious!” she says. She can’t tell if she’s on the verge of crying or laughing. It’s absolutely insane, how many crossed wires they’ve got.

 

He rolls his eyes, crosses his arms. “So that’s it. Wham, bam, thank you, see you later, have a nice life?” He realizes something – and his voice goes low, with jealousy. “You’re going back to him, right? To what’s his face? You find out he moved on and now you’re going to go back and beg – ”

 

She shakes her head. “It was, at first,” she says, looking at her hands. “But then – things changed.” She looks up at him, pained.

 

The anger that lines his face ebbs, but the confusion is still there. “So why . . .?”

 

She fiddles with her phone, in the pocket of her robe. Then she takes it out, and finds the last e-mail from the architect. She’s never told anyone about this before, not even her family – her sisters who think she’s stuck in a dead-end job at a thrift shop clerk, her father who thinks she should be living her life instead of being a wallflower at home. Who all don’t know that the Lara Jean who watches romcoms and reads trashy romance novels isn’t staying home on a weekend night, but is running around the world as an international assassin.

 

No one else knows, until now.

 

“You’re always saying I should do this professionally,” she murmurs, and slides the phone across the island to him. He picks it up and scrolls through the PDF plans. “The food service business is risky and competitive, and needs a lot of financing. All it needs now is a name.” She sighs, presses the heels of her palms to her eyes, until she sees stars. “Peter, I can’t stay here. I can’t _do_ this anymore.”

 

When she finally summons the courage to look up, he’s staring sadly back at her.

 

Her phone suddenly pings. He picks up her phone, looks at the screen – then slides it across the counter to her. “The plans look really nice,” he whispers. Then he pauses. “Your resignation was just approved. Congratulations.”

 

A slow swell of emotion crests over her – surprise – relief – genuine delight – and then, at the look on Peter’s face, quiet and steady but with his jaw set in a rigid line and his eyes raw – there comes an awful, tight, bitterness on the back of her tongue. She curses herself when she feels her face crumple and she crosses over and wraps her arms around his waist, and holds on. After a moment, she feels his go about her shoulders – then, his chin on her head.

 

“I’m so sor – ”

 

“Don’t say it,” he grumbles, and kisses the top of her head, fiercely. “I get it, I do. Okay?”

 

The front of his shirt feels wet. She should ask. Even if she already knows the answer. “Have you ever thought about it?”

 

“Thought about what?” he asks, dully.

 

Of course not. He loves this life, doesn’t he? And he’s good at it. And she knows he’s using the money for his family, just like she’s been doing for hers. And . . . just like how she likes some parts of her current life and work, she knows he genuinely likes some parts of the regular life, however fake . . . but that he still . . .

 

Nevertheless, she should ask. She ventures, timid, “I mean, leaving. Retiring. You could – you could come with me?”

 

It’s his turn to not answer for a long time. And that’s his answer, isn’t it?

She looks up at him, but only briefly – she can’t stand to see the expression on his face, pained and conflicted. “It’s okay,” she says, giving him the out. “I get it. I do.”

 

He lets go of her, only to place his hands on her cheeks. She closes her eyes, against the sad look in his, and he says, gently, “Covey, I – ”

 

The front door opens, and a childish voice calls, “LJ? I got something for you!”

 

Peter sighs, and Lara Jean pulls away, wiping her eyes hurriedly with the back of her hand. Talia comes skipping into the kitchen, in her leotard and tights, with a big construction paper card. “Mommy said I could give this to you real quick!” she announces.

 

“Oh sweetie, that’s _so_ perfect,” Lara Jean trills, her voice perhaps a little too high. It’s a picture of the three of them, in stick-figure form, with fireworks in the sky. She swoops Talia into a big hug, then turns to show Peter the card. Except he’s looking off somewhere else. “Peter, look, isn’t it nice?” she prods, relieved for the distraction.

 

He waves her off. “Do you hear that?”

 

“Hear what?”

 

The music had stopped, about to go to another song. It starts up again. But Peter turns the speakers down to mute. Lara Jean listens. There’s nothing, nothing at all. Just the sounds of the neighborhood, of people waking up and getting ready to start their weekend –

 

And underneath all that, a faint ticking.

 

Peter flies about the kitchen, pulling open cabinets. Alarmed, Lara Jean drops the card and scoops Talia up. “Go!” he shouts. “Get her out of here.”

 

“Not without you,” she says, but then he pulls open the cabinet over the microwave, and there it is –

 

*

 

All of a sudden, Peter knows what Gen had mumbled before they took her away.

 

_You should’ve killed me when you had the chance._

 

“Go right the fuck _now!_ ” Peter yells, pushing Lara Jean towards the front door.

 

“Lara Jean what’s wrong?” Talia asks, confused.

 

“Close your eyes,” Lara Jean snaps. “Peter!”

 

“I can disarm it,” he says.

 

“Don’t be stupid!” she says. She grabs hold of his hand but he pushes her again.

 

“Go!”

 

She doesn’t reply. Because all of a sudden, the house explodes around them.

 

-tbc-


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very very very very very very sorry. if you're still reading this, thank you for your patience!!!! <3 if you're not, i don't blame you, haha.

Someone’s screaming.

 

Peter shakes his head. It could be the ringing in his ears, but then it fades to a whine and he can still hear it, over the crackling. He blinks, coughs, and things come into focus, so suddenly it makes his already thudding head jolt with pain.

 

He’s in the remnants of the hallway, debris scattered everywhere around him. He tries to take a deep breath but can’t – the air is thick with smoke, and his ribs sting so sharply he cries out. That’s when he notices he’s on his stomach, and he can’t move at all, because something’s got him pinned to the floor.

 

“Talia?” he shouts. “Talia!”

 

More screaming. “Mommy! Mommy! I want my mommy! Mommy!”

 

“Talia!” He coughs, curses. “Talia. Can you hear me?”

 

Finally, he hears her calm down enough to call, “P-Peter?”

 

“Talia!” he yells. Where is she? He shakes his head, and then he sees her – sitting up on the floor a few feet away, her tights torn and her legs and arms scratched to bits. _Shit._ “Are you okay?”

 

 _Stupid question, Kavinsky_ , he thinks. A bomb just fucking took them all out.

 

Talia sniffs. “I want Mommy.” Then she bursts into a fresh wave of tears.

 

“Hey. Hey hey hey. Sweetie, it’s okay.” He coughs, shudders. He’s becoming aware of his leg – how it’s spiking with pain.

 

“LJ won’t wake up.”

 

Peter squints through the smoke. Just beyond her, Lara Jean is lying in a heap, her back to them. From here, he can tell she’s breathing. Thank god. “Covey!” he shouts. “Lara Jean!”

 

She stirs, turns over. Behind him, Peter can feel sudden heat rising, and hear the crackling, licking sound grow. “Covey, wake up!”

 

Lara Jean struggles to sit up, wincing. “Peter? Ow. Oh, my god.”

 

“Covey, get her out of here.”

 

She crawls over to him. “You’re stuck underneath a beam,” she mutters. She tries to lift it, but then falls back, grabbing her left arm. “I’ve sprained it.” Not that it matters. From the weight of it, he seriously doubts she could’ve moved it had she been uninjured. “Peter, your leg – ”

 

“Well, that explains the mind-numbing pain,” he grumbles. He can’t turn to look at it. Something bangs again, in the kitchen. Lara Jean jumps. The smoke seems to almost whoosh, billowing out in black clouds above their heads. He can taste ash on his tongue. “Go on. Get out of here.”

 

“No,” she says, shaking her head fiercely. “No way.”

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, trying to sound casual. “Just go. Okay? Get Talia out.”

 

“Peter!” she exclaims, distraught. He starts coughing again, and so does she. “Peter, I’m not – I _can’t_ – ”

 

‘It’s going to be okay,” he says. She pulls at his arm, but can’t move him. “Covey.” Behind her, Talia starts to hack and cough. “Covey, go. Please, just go.”

 

She wipes at her eyes – then reaches for him, arm tight around his neck. “I’m coming back,” she says, against his throat. “I’m getting help, okay? I’m coming back.”

 

He wants to say, _Don’t be stupid._ He wants to say, _I’m sorry. Don’t worry. This isn’t your fault._ There is a shit load he wants to say, but it’s becoming too hard to breathe, and she needs to get out of here, now. Otherwise . . .

 

So he only nods, just to get her to go.

 

She coughs, and releases him. Crawls away towards Talia – rises, unsteady, to her feet. Peter covers his mouth with his arm, watches as she hoists her to her hip, in a one-armed carry.

 

“Lara Jean? What about Peter?” he hears Talia say.

 

“I gotta get you out first, honey,” she says. Lara Jean looks over her shoulder at him, one last time. And then slowly, agonizingly, she limps past the wreckage and towards the front door.

 

Relieved, Peter lays his forehead down on the floor. The smoke is getting too thick, his throat feels like it’s burning. _At least she’s safe,_ he thinks. _At least –_

 

*

 

Her left arm is killing her. She can’t pull the front door open, not with her bad arm. “Talia, hold on to me,” she says, and when she feels Talia’s arms go tight around her neck, she lets go of the little girl and pulls – once – twice – harder – and then they stumble backwards, but it’s all right, because they’re out, breathing fresh air.

 

Lara Jean staggers into the front yard, the sunlight searing her eyes. Talia still hangs on, sobbing and coughing.

 

Sirens. Sirens, but they’re too far away –

 

“LJ!”

 

Oh, thank god. The extraction team.

 

“Trevor!” she screams, although it comes out hoarse, thickened by smoke. “Trevor – Peter’s stuck. He’s stuck, I couldn’t get to him – _please_ – ”

 

“Get her help,” Trevor yells, pushing her into someone’s arms, before he runs into the house.

 

Lara Jean tries to breathe. Talia, quaking, continues to wail.

“Talia! Talia!”

 

Lara Jean looks up, just as Greg and Keisha descend. Greg grabs the little girl from her, and Keisha, on the verge of hysteria, grabs her from him. “Lara Jean?” Greg yells. “LJ! What happened?”

 

“Talia, baby are you okay – ”

 

“I gotta go – ” Lara Jean coughs, trying to break free from the agent’s grip on her shoulders. “I gotta help Peter – ”

 

“Agent Song-Covey!” The agent holds tighter. “You cannot go in there in your state – ”

 

She turns – elbows him in the face, and starts forward again. Except she’s so disoriented she runs straight into Keisha and Talia, both of them gaping at her.

 

“Agent . . .?” Keisha says, stunned.

 

She can’t face them. She gulps, tries to take in more air, but it all just seems to burn her throat, her lungs. And then she collapses onto the grass, the world spinning, before it goes suddenly dark, and quiet.

 

*

 

“ . . . they think she must have done this as a contingency. They’ve already apprehended the perpetrator. He has links to her Los Angeles operation. It was fairly cut and dry. They didn’t even need to interrogate her. Not that it would have mattered. They’ve tried before, but she’s otherwise indisposed. Uncommunicative. It appears to be genuine . . . Agent Song-Covey, would you like a different meal?”

 

Lara Jean blinks, startled. “Um, no, why?”

 

The infirmary nurse, a sweet-faced girl who looks barely out of school, smiles pleasantly at her. “You’ve barely touched your meatloaf.”

 

It’s a decent spread. For all her grievances against the Company, the infirmary food is not one of them. “No, thank you,” Lara Jean manages. “I’m just not very hungry.”

 

“Well, you need to eat up!” she chirps, moving forward to fluff Lara Jean’s pillow for her.

 

“Do, um, do they know what they’re gonna do with her?” Lara Jean asks, uncomfortable, as she settles back.

 

The nurse shrugs. “Above my clearance.” She leans in, conspiratorial. “Last I heard, though, she was designated for termination.”

 

Lara Jean flinches. The nurse looks surprised. “I would’ve thought after all she did . . .”

 

She looks away. The nurse is young. Probably brand-new to the Company, with a fresh, enthusiastic outlook towards her undoubtedly exciting life helping others fight bad guys. Not unlike Lara Jean herself, more than a handful of years ago. Both girls wouldn’t understand. Both girls didn’t see what she saw, in Gen’s eyes.

 

Instead, Lara Jean says, “I’ve been stuck here for . . . how long? For just a sprained wrist and smoke inhalation. I should’ve been released ages ago. I don’t exactly have an appetite. Care to tell me when they’re gonna let me go?”

 

The nurse’s eyes shadow. “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” she demurs. She picks up Lara Jean’s tray. “Just let me know if you need anything else,” she says, as she briskly walks away.

 

Lara Jean lies back against the pillows and stares up at the ceiling. She can tell there’s a camera in the fire sprinkler right above her bed. _How much longer . . .?_ She’d tried the door to her room the very day she woke up, only to find it locked – and she’s up on at _least_ the tenth floor, so going out of the window, especially in her present condition, isn’t going to fly.

 

She still doesn’t know if Peter . . .

 

She couldn’t ask, both too afraid that she might inadvertently get him in trouble, or worse, put him in danger – or even worse than that, if he’d ended up . . . she doesn’t want to know, at least not yet. She couldn’t take it. She can’t.

 

*

 

Boss pays him a visit pretty much right after Peter wakes up – which, best as he can figure, is three days later - woozy from the drugs and still reeling from the rapid-fire news that doctor told him – Talia and Lara Jean are all right, but they need to operate on his leg that very afternoon. Peter keeps quiet as Boss tells him in clipped, professional tones that with Ted’s death, Gen’s arrest, and the information that Peter and Covey had gathered, the Company was able to discern the identities and locations of the arms dealers. Other agents are being prepped and debriefed to take them down.

 

“Which leaves the mess at the house,” Boss says, shaking his head. “Quite the mess.”

 

Peter tries his best, winning smile. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be able to think of something. You always do.” He knows from past experience it’s best to cater to Boss’ ego.

 

“Of course,” Boss says, smoothly. “I’m just very sorry about your ex.”

 

The skin on the back of his neck prickles. “Not all of it was her fault.”

 

Boss pulls a face. “Kavinsky. She tried to kill you both. Twice. She almost killed a civilian child.”

 

“She’s sick, Boss.” He remembers the way she was, in the cabin – on the stretcher. How she blamed them, blamed him. “It’s not that simple.”

 

“That’s up for the Board to decide.”

 

“Because they’re always right,” he scoffs..

 

Boss shrugs. “Kavinsky, we’re just the fist. We go where the head tells us. Them’s the breaks.”

 

Peter shakes his head. “Just tell the Riveras it’s was a gas leak. Something. Anything. Talia – you said she wasn’t hurt at all. Not a scratch.” That, he knows, is reaching. The girl had been scared shitless, and for that, he’ll always feel awful about. Wildly, he suggests, “How much is it to keep Genevieve incarcerated? Therapy?”

 

Boss looks at him, confused. “A lot. You couldn’t possibly – ”

 

“Put it on my tab,” he says, grimly. Call him stupid. But despite everything, there isn’t anyway he can live with himself, knowing what he knows now.

 

“That is at least another two years, maybe three,” Boss says, eyebrow raised. “Are you sure?”

 

“What can I say?” Peter says, dry. “Love my job.”

 

Boss rocks back on his heels, picks up his briefcase. “As you say,” he says, and heads for the door. “Now, I’m off to clean up your other mess. I’ll tell Agent Covey you said hello. Damn shame about her, you know. So close to retirement.”

 

“Close?”

 

“Well, I mean, there’s no way the Board’s going to let her go now, not with this level of clean-up.”

 

Shocked, Peter says, “You said – you already told her – you can’t _do_ that.”

 

Boss shrugs, again, as if he revealed nothing more than the weather report. “Easily rescinded. We’ve done it before. Besides, she’s probably one of my best agents. Well, next to you, that is. We just can’t have her leave us all of a sudden. That’d really tank our numbers.”

 

Peter just stares, whirling. _Jesus Christ._

He could sit there. Let Boss go out that door, give the bad news to Covey. She’d be stuck with the Company for god knows how much longer. But she’d still be _here_.

 

And a terrible, awful thrill goes through him –

 

Maybe even – they could still . . .

 

And just as suddenly as it occurs to him, he squashes it down, back and away. Because no. There’s no way he could do that. Not to Lara Jean, of all people. Never.

 

“No, don’t. Put Covey’s share on my tab, too.”

 

Boss sets down his briefcase. “Before I answer,” he says, measured, “Want to tell me why, when the extraction team found her, she was wearing your clothes?”

 

To his credit, Peter doesn’t even blink. Everything’s slotting in together, piece by piece. He’d walked right into that one, didn’t he? Boss just had to pull a little, and he fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if Boss had planned this from the very beginning.

 

Well, he’s always had a thing for damsels. Didn’t Covey even say that, once?

 

“I resent the implication,” he says, even. He jerks his chin towards Boss’ briefcase. “Put me down for four years total. That should be enough, shouldn’t it?”

 

Boss nods at him, slowly. “Well, then, I will draw up all the paperwork and you can sign it tonight after your operation,” he says, picking up his briefcase and heading for the door once again. “Oh, and Peter?” he adds, holding onto the knob. “You _do_ know former agents’ whereabouts are confidential and they are not to be contacted. And that contact with civilians of the . . . _fraternization_ kind is strictly prohibited. We need our people steady. Sharp.”

 

He’s calm, poised. He’s always been good at that. “Of course.”

 

Boss leaves without a further word. Peter just looks out the window and tries to forget the look on Lara Jean’s face, after she asked him to come with her – eyes glassy with tears, hurt and at the same time resigned. Tries, instead, to remember the other look – her happy one, the one when she found out she was leaving, the one he could never deny her. When the orderlies finally come to prep him for the surgery, he’s never been so grateful to lie on the table and stare up at the light, and count down from ten. He doesn’t even reach seven before he’s out, and mercifully, dreamless.

 

*

 

She’s sitting up in the infirmary bed, picking at her food, when Boss finally enters with his briefcase and his most benevolent smile.

 

It immediately sets Lara Jean on edge.

 

“Well, the good news is, although your cover was blown to the neighbors, we were successfully able to fake your death so, for all they know, you’re an FBI agent who tragically, but heroically, lost her life while rescuing the local neighborhood darling,” Boss says, setting his briefcase down on the visitors chair. Her throat closes up and she looks down at her hands, twisting in the edge of her infirmary blanket. The idea that Talia and her parents believe she died – that they saw her “die” – makes her feel sick.

 

“Is Talia Rivera okay?” she asks, quietly.

 

Boss shrugs. “A little banged up. No worse for wear. Kids are resilient, you know?”

 

Lara Jean nods slowly, lips pursed.

 

“I tell you, Agent Covey. In some ways, I’m sad you’re leaving. You’re a hell of an agent. But the messes you make . . .” He laughs, and shakes his head, as if he were scolding a wayward child.

 

Her heart leaps. _I’m still leaving – he’s still letting me go . . ._ She had thought Gen’s bomb had ruined her chances, that he was here to rescind her resignation – saddle her with so much clean-up debt that who knows when she’d get the chance to leave again.

 

“You’re to return home tonight,” Boss says. “A cleaner crew will be there to assist with the move out of the apartment. They’ll collect all your Company-issued equipment, as well.”

 

“My sister – ” Lara Jean mutters, still shocked. “She goes to Georgetown. She’ll need – ”

 

Boss shrugs. “Well, I’ll have Trevor set her up some place comfortable, and close. Call it a thank you for your long years of honorable service with us.”

 

She nods, numb. “Did Agent Kavinsky survive the attack?” she asks, her voice level, professional. Inside, her chest hammers. She could swear Boss can hear it from across the room.

 

He waves a hand. “Oh, don’t you worry about him. Right as rain.” He pats her foot, over the blanket. “Signed up for an additional few years of service. What can I say. A Company guy, through and through.” He holds a tablet out to her.

 

Reeling from the news about Peter, it takes her a few seconds to realize what it is, to not gawp at it like a stunned deer, caught in the glare of incoming headlights.

 

_Company pays Retiree the sum of . . . To be deposited following business day . . . All Company assets surrendered . . . Retiree is not to have any contact with any current active-duty member of the Company. Proof of contact will result in severe penalties to any involved parties, the severity of which is to be determined by the Company member supervisor and the Board, if necessary._

It’s dated today.

 

It feels like she’s floating, her limbs bobbing, barely, above water.

 

 _I’ve worked so hard for this,_ she thinks, her thumb hovering over the blinking dotted line on the tablet screen. _I’ve cried, I’ve lost so much. I’ve bled. I’ve literally bled. And I’m going to lose so much now, too . . ._

She thinks about her mother, who tried to leave, and didn’t. She thinks about her father, who muddled his way through life since Mom died and is only just beginning to pick up the pieces.

 

She presses her thumb to the screen.

 

Boss smiles at her, holds out his hand. Lara Jean looks at it, swallows. _He was going to tell you no_ , she reminds herself, almost blindly taking Boss’s hand, her grip slack with shock. _He was always going to say no._ Still, the truth of it stings her, so much so that she can barely register Boss leaving the room. She only lies down on the bed, on her side, and clutches her pillow to her chest, and tries to remember how to breathe.

 

*

 

Kitty, of course, has a ton of questions. “This is highly illegal!” she snits, as the cleaner crew, disguised as movers, scurries about the apartment. “No landlord can just kick us out because you missed one month’s rent!”

 

“Well, it’s all for the better anyway,” Lara Jean says, threading her arms through her backpack. “The new place is much closer to campus. And it’ll be bigger.”

 

“Only because you’re leaving!” Kitty says. “I can’t believe you’re opening up your own shop! And then you’re not even staying in DC. It’s crazy! It’s so un-Lara Jean-like.” She glares at her. “And _where_ did you get all that money?”

 

“Yeah, well, you and dad and Margot always going on and on about me getting out more,” Lara Jean says, ignoring the money question. She still hasn’t figured out how she’s going to explain it away to Dad and Margot. Maybe she’ll say she got it from a benevolent investor who was really impressed with her cupcakes. It’s not a lie. “Figured it was time.”

 

“I mean, yeah, it is,” Kitty says, her expression softening. “I just – I guess I’m gonna miss you, that’s all.”

 

Lara Jean smiles, touched. “You’re just gonna miss my credit card.”

 

Her sister’s jaw drops. “You mean you’re taking it with you?!”

 

*

 

It’s a whirlwind, a hectic storm of construction plans and dust, interviews and training with her staff, ordering equipment and supplies, and recipe testing in her new home. She barely thinks of Peter, in the daylight hours, too busy to wallow, her work the only way to cope.

 

No, that’s another lie. It’s in the quiet moments that she remembers – when all the cupcakes are finally frosted and she sits back to survey her handiwork; when her newest hire’s boyfriend comes to pick her up to grab lunch; when she’s finally on the couch and watching tv as she picks at takeout late at night. It’s the quiet moments when she can think, and she’ll think about the quiet moments too – the way his eyes would flash with delight when he’d come in from work and see a new spread of dessert on the island; how he’d press his hand, light, on the small of her back when they’d go out with Greg and Keisha or leave Darrell and Pammy’s; when there’s a funny or sappy or cringey moment on the television and a socked foot would nudge her knee and a teasing voice would say, “You good, Covey?”

 

And in the night, in her empty bed, she’d always dream . . . of an open, warm smile . . . melty dark eyes that made her feel like she was drowning, happily, in them . . . the play of his fingers, light, against the line of her thigh, slung over his hip . . .

 

It’s one of those quiet moments, in the late summer afternoon, as the construction workers are finally putting up the sign to her store, that she finally notices the same guy has been walking by, peering at the progress of the bakery, every 3 pm, almost on the dot.

 

 _Rookie_ , Lara Jean thinks, perturbed. She doesn’t let on she’s noticed him, just goes inside the shop and surveys the counters. She pretends to wipe down the display cases, but she’s really looking for a bug. She doesn’t find any, but that’s not too surprising. She’ll have to check periodically.

 

She’s heard of this before – the Company sending people to check up on former agents. Why, she’s not sure. But it leaves her angry, and a little scared.

 

It’s why she doesn’t immediately open the package she receives later that night. The return address she recognizes immediately as a fake, but no name. She honestly thinks about heading downstairs to the shop and borrowing some of the workers tools, just in case she has to disarm a bomb. But then, finally, she elects to just carefully slice open the packaging.

 

Inside is her hatbox. The ribbon is singed at the edges, and the aquamarine silk is streaked with dust, but it’s her hatbox. She’d thought it had been destroyed in the fire. With a happy, relieved squeal, she opens up the lid. Her letters – John’s snow globe. All still there, all intact.

 

And an extra envelope.

 

Frowning, she picks it up. It’s unaddressed, and inside is a coded letter. Her frown deepens. Right away, she can tell it’s not in any of the standard Company codes. She picks up a notepad and a pencil and hunches over her desk – jiggles her knee, looks for the patterns. It’s long, painstaking work. She gives up twice, brews some tea, and comes back to it.

 

If it’s such a tough code to break, then it can only be from one person. And that person always had certain tells, too.

 

_2.0 -_

_T’s team found in wreck. Managed to hang on. Easier to get you it & info._

_He’s paying for G’s treatment & your share of clean-up._

_Thought you should know. KIT if you can._

 

_Number 1._

Their personal joke, ever since Lucas James worked as tech lead on one of her first ops.

She stares at the letter for a very long time. She shouldn’t be so surprised – she’s known what kind of guy Peter really is, despite all the bluster and her initial confusion. And it all makes sense. Why Peter would re-up. Why Boss didn’t seem to care that she was leaving, that the operation had ended in disaster, with civilian witnesses – it was because, when all was said and done, he got mandatory years of additional service from one of his best agents. Even why there’s a rook on her. Maybe they guessed what she meant, to Peter. That they spotted her potential liability to their asset.

 

She puts Lucas’ letter back into the box – looks at all the names on the envelopes, and the snow globe. She’d risked so much, opened up her heart again, only to have it torn from her, so quickly and sharply it’s a wonder she’s still breathing. Somehow, she hadn’t thought to write Peter a letter though, and she couldn’t figure out why, until now.

 

She had never wanted to put Peter in this box. And so, here she is – full of grief – and guilt, and hurt – and also hope.

 

She looks at the top right most corner of her desk, where her good stationery lies.

 

Waiting.

 

*

 

He wants to keep sleeping, to stay wrapped up in warmth and comfort, but she’s whispering something, close to his ear – then against his mouth. Peter opens his eyes, and there she is, leaning over him.

 

“Hey,” he mumbles, confused.

 

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Lara Jean whispers. She traces a finger over his brow, down his nose, to his lips.

 

 _This happened before._ Sort of? But it was on the couch of the . . . _their_ house. Not the bed . . .?

 

Her smile is soft, radiant, through the fall of her hair. He reaches up, brushes the strands out of her face, tucks them behind her ear. Cups her cheek. She nuzzles her lips into his palm, still smiling, so _happy_ , and his heart turns over painfully, because now he knows it’s a dream, it’s a dream, it’s a fucking goddamned dream, and he’s going to wake up too soon.

 

“I don’t want to,” he says.

 

Her smile fades. “Peter,” she says, sadly, and then he opens his eyes and it’s dark in his apartment, and the spot beside him in bed is cold and empty.

 

He turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

 

Boss had given him a few months of R & R. He’d visited his mom, and Owen - made up a story about being in a car crash and not wanting to worry them. Went to PT. Read. Channel-surfed. Saw Gen once – his only visit, through the observation booth. He’d gone to make sure they didn’t renege on their end of the deal – he wouldn’t put it past them, at this rate. She looked okay, if a little tired, dressed in a drab jumpsuit as she spoke with her doctor. Her hair was down and unbrushed and her ankles and wrists shackled. The nurse told him as long as she continued to make progress, they’d consider putting her in a low-grade security facility in gen-pop for the rest of her life. He’d nodded and left, relieved that at least with this part of his life, he could put away with some measure of peace.

 

The other part? Well, that’s taking some time. He’d thought now that he’s been cleared, and handed his next op, the prep for that would’ve distracted him. And it has, and thank god it’s in a few weeks. But not enough to stop him from reaching for his phone to text someone who’s no longer at the other end if she wants fries with her dinner, or scroll through the tv listings and think, _She’d love that one . . ._

Or stop him from having these goddamned dreams. The ones where he’s basically reliving that night in the shower and in his bed, wrapped up in each other, his name breathy in the bottom of her throat – those, somehow, aren’t the worst ones. The ones that are – those are the ones where she’s all warm and soft and sweet, dancing away in a sunny kitchen or curled up on the couch or laughing with Talia. The ones that make him wake up thinking, achingly, that the time in the house with her was the real dream, and he’d realized it much too late to keep themselves from waking – that there may have been nothing he could’ve done, to stop them from waking.

 

Peter yawns, swings his legs out of bed – rubs the back of his neck. Maybe he’ll go for a run today. He still needs to keep building up his strength in his leg.

 

After his run, he stops at the mailboxes in the lobby. Covey’s name is gone from the nametags. He’d wondered, when he first came back to the apartment, what happened to her kid sister - what story she had to tell her, about leaving so abruptly. Half a dozen times it occurred to him he could easily look Kitty up – he’s pretty sure she goes to college somewhere in D.C. – but he never did, knowing that it was futile, and how much trouble going down that road could bring him – bring Covey. He’s not convinced that they’re not watching her, or him, for that matter.

 

And he’s not about to risk that. If she’s happy – somewhere, wherever she is – then it’ll have been worth it. He’ll just have to deal with his shit by himself. It’s fine.

 

Really.

 

He hasn’t checked the mail in a few days. He unlocks his box, and the contents spill out onto the floor. Sighing, he scoops them up. Bills, junk, coupons ... and what looks like a letter from an I. Bergman Bank, typewritten, with a see-through plastic window for the recipient’s address. Although it has to be a mistake.

 

H. Bogart

121 Green Street, Apt 204

Washington, DC 20057

 

Something in his memory twigs, like a finger tip brush across his cheek.

 

The return address is a post office box number that must be fake. But the postmark is real.

 

Brooklyn, New York.

 

-tbc-


	19. Chapter 19

The talk of the neighborhood is the new bakery on the corner, across from the used bookstore. Ingrid + Humphrey serves everything from cupcakes to pies and tarts, and is known for a place where people can sit and listen to music from the retro jukebox nestled in the corner. Normally, it’s stuff from the ‘50’s through the ‘80s – but these days, in keeping with the holidays, it’s on Christmas songs.

 

“I just think it might be wise to add some ethical treats,” Chris, her assistant, says as she sweeps in front of the door. “Is it that much more trouble to use free range eggs and ethically sourced chocolate? The neighborhood is crawling with crunchy types.”

 

“You’re a crunchy type,” Lara Jean murmurs absently, trying to reconcile the cash in her register. It’s ten minutes from closing, and all the customers of the day have left.

 

“Precisely!” Chris says. “The marketplace demands it.”

 

Lara Jean smirks. “I’ll consider a line,” she says, thoughtful. She peers through the windows, rimmed with softly glowing golden Christmas lights and tinsel. There’s barely any passerbys, and no wonder – it’s almost midnight, according to the clock hanging above the front door. Most of the storefronts on this street are due to close in fifteen minutes, including her own.

 

She locks up the register, but leaves the key hanging in the drawer. “I’m going to wash the dishes,” she says. Chris waves her off, and she pushes through the double doors, rolling up her sleeves and slipping on a pair of yellow gloves. China clinks and utensils clatter, and she hums along to Bing Crosby’s _White Christmas_ wafting in beyond the doors. Another fairly typical night since she opened up, just a few months ago.

 

The door swings open slightly. “Hey, LJ?” Chris calls, softly.

 

“Yup?” she asks, not turning around.

 

“You said to let you know if anyone ever ordered one of those godawful Christmas fruitcake cookies,” Chris says. “He’s sitting at the counter.”

 

Her hands still in the soapy water. “Thanks,” she says, swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat. “Hey. Um. You can leave early, I’ll finish up myself.”

 

“You sure?” Chris asks, excited. Lara Jean nods, still not turning around. “Awesome. See you tomorrow!” The door _whompfs_ closed.

 

Lara Jean counts to ten. Then she peels off her dishwashing gloves, wipes her hands on her apron – flips her braid over her shoulder to let it rest against her back. There’s probably flour on her face, and there is most definitely a huge chocolate stain on the collar of her blouse, but she can’t do anything about it.

 

Nervously, she fiddles with the wedding ring on her left hand. The Company had been scrupulous in taking back all of its property from her right before the move, but she’d played dumb and kept it, saying it must’ve been lost in the wreckage. Ever since she got the letter from Lucas, and sent her letter to Peter, she’s worn it. Even if Peter never got her letter – never tried to contact her, ever again – it seemed fitting, at the time.

 

And now . . .

 

Anxious, she goes to the industrial fridge and pulls out a Saran-wrapped ball of pie dough – then walks out of the kitchen, head low and gaze straight ahead. There’s a figure sitting at the counter, hunched over, grey sweatshirt hoodie pulled up. Lara Jean doesn’t look at him though – just heads to the back counter, and sets her ingredients down on the stainless steel. She faces the wall and starts to roll out the pie dough.

 

“They have an agent on me,” she says, low. “Bookstore across the street. He’s a rookie, from what I can tell. But we should be discrete.”

 

“I gotcha.” As she works, she hears him take a bite of the cookie. “Nice place. Like the name.” She smiles, gratified.

 

Then, after a long moment, he asks, softly, “Are you happy?”

 

She keeps rolling. She’s never been able to make a perfect circle. It always comes out lopsided, more oval or oblong . . .

 

Is she happy? In the few months she’s opened the shop, she’s already turning a profit. She has lovely regulars – a sweet elderly couple, who love her chocolate croissants; Mr. and Mrs. Stein, and their three little boys, who like to stop by every week and try a new type of cookie; Lucy, an accountant who works downtown and loves her macarons. She’s going out for sushi and drinks with Lucy and her friends next weekend – the first time she’s gotten to do something like this, not part of some cover, since college. And tomorrow, she’s meeting with Frank and Kyle, to go over the final tasting for their wedding cake. It’s going to be her first wedding cake, and she thinks – _knows_ – they’re going to love it. She can’t wait to see the looks on their faces when they try it.

 

Lara Jean stops rolling, and sets the dough inside the pan. She starts crimping the edge with a fork. “Yes,” she replies, honestly. She’s never been happier.

 

“I’m glad,” he says, and she can tell, in the warmth of his voice, that he spoke genuinely.

 

And somehow, that makes it even worse. Her heart constricts, and it’s so hard to breathe, and she starts to say, “I am _so_ sor – ”

 

He clears his throat, stopping her. “I’m just passing through,” he says, quiet. “I would’ve come sooner, but I wanted to make sure no one would be looking at me too closely. I took another op. Deep cover. Leaving tonight, actually. I’m – well, I’ll be gone a while.”

 

Her chest constricts again. _What if gets hurt again. What if he –_ The guilt presses deep into the hollow of her, until tears start to prickle in the corners of her eyes.

 

“What you did – for Gen – for me – I can’t even . . .”

 

“I know. A dumbass thing, right?” he huffs, but with a trace of gentle humor.

 

She shakes her head, smirking, glad he remembers their movie night fights too. “No. No, you did . . . you did the honorable thing.”

 

She hears him exhale – long, low. “Thank you.”

 

She nods once, licks her lips. “What’s the op? Where . . .?”

 

“You know I can’t tell you.”

 

She chews on her lip. It could be anything – anywhere, literally anywhere. “Stay safe,” she whispers.

 

“Ah, you know me,” he says, cavalierly. Too cavalierly, and so she knows it’s just an act. She knows that about him now – how he can pretend everything’s okay, everything’s all right. She hates that she knows that now. “I’ll be good.”

 

She sets down the fork, wipes at the corner of her eye – takes a breath, watery with emotion. “I – I . . . I couldn’t stand it if . . . just _please_ be caref – ” She stops, because suddenly, she hears him jump over the counter – feels his arm go around her waist, turning her towards him so abruptly not even all her training could prepare her so she stumbles forward into his chest.

 

“Rookie left before the shift change,” Peter says, rushed. “Figure we have aboutfiveminutes – ”

 

“Ohyeahrimphgffff,” Lara Jean just barely manages to stutter, muffled against his mouth. Her knees buckle – she runs her floured hands over his face, through his hair, pushing the hood off – he presses her against the counter and she barely registers, through the haze of heat, the sound of utensils rattling. She just tries to pour all of her feelings for him, in the sweep of her tongue and the press of her lips, into this kiss.

 

“Knew it,” he mumbles, when they pull apart for air – much, much too quickly for her liking – his forehead against hers. His fingers are running up and down her back, sending shivers through her. She realizes, almost incoherent, that the music has changed – to something she used to play at the house. Al Green? Maybe? It’s hard to think.

 

“Knew what?” she murmurs, her fingers linked at the back of his neck. She still feels a little shaky.

 

“That you couldn’t live without me,” he smarms.

 

A few months ago, she would’ve punched him – and she still kind of wants to. But that wouldn’t be the entire truth. She’s done pretending.

 

So she just looks up at him, and smiles, big and full and dimpled. “Yeah, pretty much.”

 

That teasing twinkle in his eyes softens, and it melts her heart – but nothing compared to the little thrill of zing that goes through her when he whispers, “I’ve been going crazy without you.”

 

She traces his eyebrow with her index finger – he closes his eyes, and she brushes the soft fringe of his eyelashes, the curve of his cheek, his lips. Tries to memorize every line of his face, every feature, imprint it into her forever. She threads her fingers through his, brings his hand up, to rest against her chest, against her heart.

 

“You take care of yourself,” she says, hoarse. “Because you’re taking care of this, now, too.”

 

He leans down and kisses her forehead, one last time. “Turn around,” he whispers, and she complies, wiping her eyes hastily with the back of her hand. And then she pauses, because can feel him – his hand, light, like a ghost, almost but not quite touching her hair – then his fingers, a brush, a whisper, against the thick braid, trailing down the plait until he places it down over her shoulder. Just like that time in the hallway, after she fell asleep on him.

 

Except now, he squeezes her left hand, in good-bye.

 

Then his hand is gone, and she hears the clink of change on the counter. “You’ve got flour on your face,” he says, his voice gruff.

 

She huffs blindly, half-sob, half-laugh, at the reminder from their first night together at the house. “So do you!” she says, and as she waits for the tinkle of the bell, the soft click of the front door, she also hears his laughter – surprised and so very dear and already far away . . .

 

She turns around, rushes to the door. Through the windows, there’s no sign of him. Not that she expected any. Outside, she can see the rookie’s replacement take his stand by a light post, pretending to read his phone and smoke a cigarette. He never saw them.

 

Quietly, she goes back to the counter, looks down. On top of the marble is the little plate, covered in crumbs. Next to it is some money for the Christmas fruitcake cookie, and a burner cell phone. And beside that is a folded piece of notebook paper, sitting underneath a velvet box.

 

There’s only one contact in the burner phone, listed as HB. She smirks, shakes her head, and looks at the note and the velvet box, before choosing the box first.

 

Inside, nestled in the velvet, is a gold heart-shaped locket strung on a delicate chain, just like the one Keisha had – like her mother had. But there’s something else, also on the chain . . .

 

Peter’s wedding ring.

 

Shocked, she looks up. And then looks down at her own hand. Somehow, he’d slipped off hers, without her noticing.

 

Lara Jean smiles. She grabs another Christmas fruitcake cookie from the display case, sits down at the counter, and begins to read.

 

_Hmm. Not bad . . ._

 

 

*

 

_Dear Humphrey –_

_I’m sorry I didn’t contact you sooner. After what happened, I thought you’d might hate me. Then Lucas sent me my hatbox, and he let me know what you did for Gen. And for me._

_I never told you about my hatbox. I had it with me at the house and I thought I lost it with everything else. It was a gift from my mother. She said to keep all my most special things in it. I ended up putting letters I never sent inside the box, to people I had all these things to say to, but never had the chance, or never could._

_I would’ve put a letter in there for you. But then Lucas gave the box back to me, and I knew I couldn’t put your letter in there._

_I just wanted to let you know that our time together was so very special to me. Even though you drove me crazy, like taking the last pizza slice and your teasing and your stupid taste in action and horror movies. You showed me how to have fun. You listened to me. You brought me out. You taught me some risks might be worth it._

_But most of all, even though you pretended not to be, you were always so kind. Thank you._

_I know it’s risky. But when you’re done and ready, and if you’re willing, there will be a light on._

_Love, always and forever,_

_Ingrid_

_*_

_Ingrid –_

_I had a lot of things I wanted to write. I crossed a lot of shit out. Truth is, I’ve never been good with that kind of stuff. But here goes._

_ Amended Contract _

_HB will write a postcard when he’s away, to let IB know he’s okay._

_IB will call HB at her discretion, when situations render it possible, and vice versa._

_HB will visit when possible on a case-by-case basis._

_IB will keep that light on._

_HB will love IB with all his heart, always._

_Love,_

_Humphrey_

_P.S. You looked so pretty today._

\- The End -

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being so patient and kind with this one! I know it took a while. 
> 
> Is anyone else SO EXCITED about the P.S. I Still Love You previews that came out? ;D


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